


Under the Wide Prairie Sky

by Arianna



Series: Brothers in Time (Gen Version) [5]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Moonridge 2007, Soul Bond, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 89,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8515915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianna/pseuds/Arianna
Summary: Brothers in Time, The Old WestThis story is a sequel to Oak Creek Canyon.This is the gen version of this story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Posted at [Starfox's Mansion](http://wolfpanther.com/).
> 
> Graphic by Peter Neverland
> 
> With thanks to Tammy, For your generous donation to Moonridge 2007
> 
> And to StarWatcher, For your superb beta support
> 
> Warning: This story is about blind bigotry and racial hatred in the Old West. There are terms used that may be hurtful to many readers. I regret that and no insult is intended. To the contrary, I want to show ignorant and willful bigotry for the evil it is.

Rising on the horizon under the wide prairie sky, the welcome silhouette of Bitterwood Creek shimmered like a mirage above the ocean of long, brown grass that rippled and undulated gently in the hot, dry, late-summer wind. Smiles wreathed their faces and they sat easy in their saddles, their journey's end at hand. Deeply glad to be nearly home after almost three months of travel, first to the reservation and then to the red rock canyons of Oak Creek, Jim and Blair kicked their mounts into a rolling gallop, drawing the big roan and the sorrel along behind on leather leads.

But, as they thundered across the prairie, their horses' hooves kicking up a cloud of dry earth behind them, Blair caught a flicker of movement off to the side. Curious, he squinted into the distance and then, uncertain, he reined in and called to his partner, "Jim, hold up!"

Jim slowed Lobo, and turned to look back over his shoulder. Then his gaze shifted to find whatever Blair was looking at, but all he could see was open land. "What is it?"

"The panther and the wolf," Blair replied as he watched their spirit animals race closer and cut between them and the town before they stopped dead not far ahead. The lines of their sleek bodies were taut; the panther growled low in its throat, and the wolf threw back its head in a long, mournful howl.

Jim frowned and again searched the prairie. "I don't see them," he said as he glanced back at Blair.

"They've stopped in front of us, blocking our path," Blair told him. "And they don't look or sound happy." He lifted his gaze to the buildings on the horizon. "I think there might be trouble in town."

Reaching out with his hearing, opening his sight, Jim strove to determine whether there was danger ahead. Biting his lip, he concentrated hard, but shook his head. "I'm not picking up on anything. Everything looks and sounds fine."

Blair urged Butternut ahead at a slow walk, stopping when he was directly in front of the spirits. "What are you trying to tell us?" he asked, his tones respectful and gentle. "I don't understand."

The wolf whined and pawed at the earth, while the panther stretched out flat on the grass, its body blocking their way.

"I think they're telling us not to go on," Blair murmured, shifting in his saddle to look back over his shoulder at Jim. "But that doesn't make any sense. Why shouldn't we go home?"

"I don't know, Chief," Jim replied, now wary as Lobo paced up beside Butternut. "Maybe they're just warning us that there's trouble ahead … warning us to be careful."

The panther yowled and the wolf yipped, and then they both faded from Blair's sight.

Perturbed by the obscure warning, Blair scowled impatiently. "I guess you got it right, because they both reacted affirmatively, and then faded away." Slumping his saddle, he sighed heavily as he gazed at their destination. "Damn it, I wish they could be a little clearer. What trouble? When? And, man? I'm gettin' really tired of facing one problem after another. I was really looking forward to just settling back into a routine, you know?"

Jim's lips tightened as he studied his partner. The weary, whining tone was one he'd never heard before. Though they'd taken their time on the long ride home from Wichita, he could see the lines of strain and exhaustion around Blair's eyes and mouth; despite the bronzing of the remorseless sun, the kid was still too pale. And he was unnaturally thin, almost gaunt, with hollow cheeks and deep shadows, like bruises, under his eyes. For his partner's sake, Jim, too, had been looking forward to peace and quiet – as much as they ever enjoyed as sheriff and the only doctor within a hundred miles in a bustling town on the stage line, a stopover point for anyone crossing the open prairie from east to west or back again. Blair didn't have his strength back yet; had suffered too much in recent months, had given too much of his life force away. He badly needed rest.

Once again, Jim scanned the town, but he could still perceive nothing that spoke of any threat. Just the opposite, for he could hear hammers pounding nails, as if new buildings were being erected, the easy calls of the citizens to one another as they passed on the main street, and the sound of children laughing in play. Reaching out, he reassuringly clapped his friend on the shoulder. "It all sounds fine, Blair, at least for now."

Nodding, Blair clicked his tongue as he lifted the reins to get Butternut moving again, but he held her to a walk, no longer blithely eager to enter the town. "Guess whatever it is, it's not here yet," he muttered.

"Forewarned is forearmed, Chief," Jim offered, regretting the discouragement and disappointment he could read on his partner's face and in the way Blair held his body. "With luck, maybe the trouble will be a long time coming."

"Yeah," Blair sighed, but his agreement sounded grudging. Still, he straightened his back and lifted his chin. A bleak smile creased his face as he added with a shrug, "At least we'll be home. And that's something to be glad about, right?"

Jim gave him a crooked smile and brief nod in return.

But as he lifted his eyes to the horizon, he hoped that whatever the trouble was, it would be a very long time coming – and, when it did, he profoundly hoped he'd be the one who had to take care of it. But trouble didn't have to mean men too handy with their sixguns or determined to try their luck in making unauthorized withdrawals from the bank. Too often, it meant illness, and he couldn't keep the town's doctor from his work as a healer, however much he might wish he could. Pulling down his hat to shade his eyes, his jaw tightened as he vowed to be extra vigilant when it came to Blair's activities in the next little while. He'd learned well the lesson that Swift Eagle had shared, that shamans couldn't help themselves – that they gave of themselves without regard for their own needs – and it was up to him to make damned sure that Blair didn't give too much.

* * *

As they approached the edge of town, Blair could also hear the industrious hammering, and they could both smell the fresh scent of clean sawdust on the air. Jim grimaced against the thick dust and his nose twitched, but he turned the blue lantern down before his partner could caution him to do so. Sniffing, he jerked his head toward the stable and saddlery owned and operated by their friend and part-time deputy, Henri Brown. Like Simon and Joel, Henri, his wife, Hannah, and their two daughters had become family to them, and Blair was eager to see them again. Following Jim's gaze, he spotted Brown's youngest girl, Cherie, sitting in the dust outside the wide open doors to the blacksmith's forge and stable, her expression woebegone, and he wondered what was wrong. But when she looked up and saw who had just ridden into town, his concerns were alleviated when her wide dark eyes lit up and she gave them a huge smile before darting inside.

"Poppa! Poppa! Doc and Sheriff Jim are back!!!" she caroled.

Her exuberant welcome chased away the dread they were both feeling, and neither could resist grinning as they dismounted. They were looping their reins over the hitching post as Henri emerged and boomed, "Hey, hey! Welcome home, strangers!" His kindly face was wreathed in a broad smile of welcome as he held out his arms and enthusiastically embraced them. "We've missed you," he went on after slapping them both on the back. "Come in, come in," he urged, waving them toward his small, wood-frame house. "Hannah has just brewed some fresh tea that'll wash the dust of the trail from your throats."

Hannah appeared at the door, her smile of greeting shy but no less sincere. "Mais oui, yes," she called to them, her Creole tones soft and musical, "please come in and set a spell. Tell us all about your journey. Ah'm makin' supper. There's plenty – and, o' course, ya'll join us."

"Well, that sounds too good an offer to refuse," Jim agreed as he swung Cherie up into his arms to carry her inside.

"It's good to see you all," Blair chimed in. "Good to be home." Turning to Henri, he waved at the roan and the sorrel as he untied his saddlebags and looped them over his shoulder. "Think we could board these fellas with you?"

"Be my pleasure," Brown assured him, his gaze sweeping over the two fine-looking horses and recognizing the roan William Ellison had been riding. His gaze clouded and he asked uncertainly, "All went well, didn't it? Jim's father an' his brother? They okay?"

"Yes, everyone's fine, H," Blair assured him. "And we've quite a story to tell."

Once again Brown smiled as he looped an arm around Blair's shoulders. "Be good to hear it," he replied.

There was something in his tone, something tired or careworn, that caused Blair to look up at him, a question in his eyes. Brown's smile faded briefly, but then he shook his head. "Time enough to fill you in after supper," he said cryptically. "Right now, I just want to enjoy having you and Jim back home."

Thinking of the panther and the wolf, Blair's eyes narrowed and he looked away. Seemed trouble might not be so far off after all. Wanting to simply enjoy their homecoming and in no hurry to hear whatever it was that was worrying Brown, his weariness from the journey bone-deep, Blair simply nodded as he followed Jim and Hannah inside the clapboard house.

Hannah filled simple clay mugs from a pitcher of tea she had chilled in a bucket of icy well water. Long familiar with her southern custom for quenching thirst, they both gratefully drank deep and sighed with pleasure.

"That really hits the spot, thanks," Blair told her, winning another shy smile. He looked around at their daughters and, seeing the older girl, Rose, helping to shuck peas for their dinner, asked, "Hey, why aren't you moppets in school? Is today a holiday or something?"

Shrugging, eight-year-old Rose glanced at her mother, who shook her head and turned away. But Cherie wasn't so easily silenced. "We don't go to school no more," she said with a pout.

"What?" Jim exclaimed. "Why not?"

"Well, it's a long story," Brown hedged, looking at his wife who, her spine rigid, was busy at her worktable, shaping unbaked bread into rolls.

"Henri said he'd bring us up to date after we eat," Blair interjected, sensing the tension and really not wanting to deal with it. In an effort to redirect everyone's attention, he reached for his saddlebags and rummaged inside. "In the meantime, want to see what Uncle Jim and I brought back for you from Santa Fe?" he asked the girls, pitching his voice to evoke anticipation.

Their eyes brightened and they nodded eagerly.

"Oh, no, you shouldn'a brought presents," Brown demurred, but his gratitude was clear on his open face.

"Hey, our pleasure," Jim assured him with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he studied his friends when Hannah again turned to face them.

"Yo both so kind," she murmured as she wiped her floury hands on a clean rag.

The girls were crowding around Blair, nearly dancing with excitement as he drew forth the small cornhusk dolls he and Jim had chosen for them. They squealed in delight at the brightly colored silk garments that garbed the dolls, tiny dresses that were finely stitched into flamboyant Mexican designs. There was a crimson one for Rose, and Cherie's doll wore shades of blue. They hugged and kissed him in delight, and then hugged and kissed Jim, too, before hurrying to a corner by a window to examine their treasures more closely.

"They's beautiful," Hannah sighed and beamed at them. "Merci. T'ank you so much."

"Ah, well, we're not done here, yet," Blair told her, his eyes twinkling at the 'oh' of surprise on her lips. He drew out a flat, cotton-wrapped square and handed it to Henri. "We thought you'd like this," he said.

Brown seemed honestly amazed as he took the gift, looking from Blair to Jim before he began to unwrap it. When he saw the silver buckle, he shook his head and, pressing his lips together, he swallowed hard. "Look here," he said to Hannah, sounding hoarse, holding it out for her to see. "Have you ever seen the like?"

"No, darlin', Ah never has," she replied as she touched his arm, her warm eyes filled with happiness for him. When Brown didn't seem to be able to say anything more, she hesitated and then explained, "Ain't nobody never give Henri nothing befo'. Not 'cept us, his kin."

"Oh, well," Blair stammered, glancing at Jim and then back at their friends, "then we're especially glad we brought it along, 'cause it's sure overdue." And then he handed her a small suede sack, held closed by a gold-colored drawstring. "And this is for you, Hannah."

"Fo' me?" she exclaimed on a breath of air, gaping at him.

"Yes, for you," Jim assured her.

Her hand was trembling as she reached for the gift and a smile blossomed on her face as she cut a look up at Henri, who looped an arm around her shoulders. When she drew out the delicately-crafted silver bangle, she gasped, and pressed the back of the hand clenching the sack to her mouth. Tears glazed her eyes and she blinked hard. "Oh, my," she whispered, overcome. "Oh, my."

"It's beautiful, darlin', jes like you," Henri murmured. "Go on. Put it on."

She looked up him and then at each of them, and they all nodded encouragingly. She slipped the bracelet over her slender hand, and it glittered against the dark chocolate of her skin. "T'is is too much," she protested, starting to pull it off.

Blair's throat thickened and he could only shake his head.

Jim reached to close his hand over hers, staying her hurried action. "No, no, please. We thought of you as soon as we saw it. Delicate and yet strong. And, like H said, beautiful, like you."

"Yo the bes' friens we eva had," she told them, tears still spangling her eyes. "Ain't nobody never been so kind as you are to us."

"You're very special to both of us," Blair said, his own voice husky. "You and your family, and Simon and Joel – well, you're our family, and we missed you while we were gone."

"We sure missed you, too," Henri assured them. "Can't say how glad we are that you're back."

"Oh, look at that, you done drank all that tea. Here," she interjected, bustling forward to gather up their mugs, "Ah'll jes get you some mo'." But she paused and then, blushing, she dipped quickly to kiss them both on their cheeks. "T'ank you," she whispered in confusion. "T'ank you."

Pleased to have made them all so happy with their small tributes, Jim and Blair both blushed and grinned like little boys.

The moment was broken when the hooves of what sounded like twenty or more horses at full gallop thundered by along the road outside, shaking the little house.

"What the …!" Jim exclaimed, coming to his feet to look out the window at the strangers clattering by.

"That's the construction gang heading home," Brown told him with a grimace of annoyance. "They ride roughshod through town every morning and every night."

Jim turned to frown at him. "But that's dangerous. They could run down someone old and too slow to get out of their way, or a little kid who'd freeze in fright."

"We knows that, Jim," Hannah replied quietly. "Tha's why we don' let the girls play out front no mo'."

"But –" Jim began, sitting back down and wondering why Brown, as the deputy, hadn't put a stop to it.

"I'll explain everything that's been goin' on after we eat," Henri assured him, glancing at his daughters. Drawing out a cane-backed chair to join them at the table, he urged, "Now, you said you had a story to tell. So, come on, then! Let's hear it!"

Blair looked at Jim, both of them sensing there was something wrong, but respecting Brown's desire to postpone the discussion. So, while Hannah finished preparing their supper, and later, as they ate, they told them of their adventures in the far west. The girls listened in awe, murmuring to each other about 'wild Injuns', until Hannah hushed them, eager herself to hear all they had to say. Brown watched them closely as the story unfolded, and the awareness in his eyes told them he knew when they were sliding over some of the facts. With an arched brow, he let them know he'd want _all_ the details later.

As Hannah was clearing off the table after they'd finished eating the apple pie she'd made for dessert, she waved toward the door. "Go on, now. Go sit for a spell in the evenin' air. Ah'll bring y'all some coffee inna minute or two."

"We can help clean up!" Blair protested as he stood to carry dishes to the wash basin on her work counter, in part because he really did want to help – and in part because he was in no hurry to hear whatever it was he knew Brown would soon tell them.

But she pulled the crockery out of his hands. "Non, non!" she laughed. "Did the prodigal son clean up after his feast? Non, yo all jes' go and leave this t' me."

With soft chuckles of defeat, the men took their hats from the pegs near the door and wandered out to sit on the narrow, sheltered porch that overlooked the street. The sun was setting in the west, the evening still bright and warm, the air clearer now that the wind had died and the dust had settled. Blair sank onto the rough-hewn bench against the wall, while Jim and Henri leaned against the posts at either end of the porch. Brown looked away, off down the street, and seemed reluctant to break the comfortable silence between them.

"Might as well spit it out, H," Jim advised, his tone low and encouraging. "What's been going on here? Why aren't the girls in school?"

Henri inhaled deeply and blew the breath out slowly. Shifting to perch one hip on the wooden railing, he licked his lips. Looking from Jim to Blair and back again, he began, "Not long after you rode out with your father, a wagon train of new settlers arrived. They, uh, come from the south, an' … there's a lot of 'em; near as many as lived in the whole town before they showed up." Once again, his gaze drifted to the street, quiet but for the cheerful sound of the saloon's harpsichord. "They's got their own ideas about what's proper. An' there's some in town who agrees with 'em."

"What ideas would those be?" Blair asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

"They don't countenance the idea of equality," Brown replied, bitterness tingeing his voice. "They don' think their children should have t' associate with mine, an' they kicked up such a fuss that poor Marnie MacDonald was at her wit's end. I … I took my girls outta the school t' make things easier on her."

He looked at Jim and his jaw was tight as he admitted, "An' … their leader, well, he also made a fuss about a 'darkie' actin' all high and mighty, strutting around town with a badge. It was getting pretty … tense, an' there was too many of 'em to fight, though Sam and Silas, and Simon and Joel and their riders, and, well, Pastor Stevens would'a backed me. I'm sorry, Jim. I guess I let you down, but it didn't seem worth men gettin' killed over."

Blair felt as if a dark cloud had settled over the sun, leaving him feeling chilled. He looked up at Jim, who had straightened, his expression one of barely contained rage. Jutting his jaw toward the Sheriff's Office down the street, he grated, "First off, don't be apologizing. Doesn't sound like you could've done anything different, H – though I'm sorry you've had to deal with such…"

He cut himself off and, his jaw clenching, swallowed hard. "Who's over there now?"

"Fellow name of McBride – he's the bossman's righthand man."

"And this 'bossman'," Jim asked with a low growl. "What would his name be?"

"Kincaid. Garrett Kincaid."

Brown sighed and waved toward the center of town. "You probably heard all the building goin' on when you rode in. Kincaid has his personal army erecting a whole lot of places. A mansion for him. A new hotel, 'cause he don't hold with a woman running her own place." He grinned bleakly. "You can jes' imagine how Miz Megan reacted to that." His soft, hollow chuckle died. "He's also buildin' a new church, 'cause Pastor Stevens made it clear we were welcome to worship there, whatever the hell Kincaid likes or doesn't like. An', he's threatened t' build his own bank, saloon and general store, too, if Sam, Silas and Angus don' refuse to do business with the 'nigras'. So far…" Henri shook his head. "They're good men, fine men, but I don't know if they can hold out forever, not if many in town take their business to Kincaid."

"Sonuva –" Jim cursed.

"There's one thing more," Brown interjected. Frowning, he looked at Blair. "I'm real sorry to tell you this, Doc, but … well, Milt Ambrose has set himself up as a doctor. All Kincaid's people are goin' to him, and they say they won't have no truck with no…" His voice caught as if he might choke, but he continued grimly, "Christ killer."

Jim slammed his fist into his palm, but Blair just held Henri's gaze for a long moment, and then nodded. "Well, given everything else, I guess that's no surprise." He shook his head. "I would've hoped that Milt … but I guess, I guess it'd be hard to turn away such good business. And, besides, while I was away, he's the only one who _could_ help the sick."

"If the fools around here go to Ambrose, when they know he's no doctor," Jim snapped, "then they deserve what they get! That's maybe the one good thing I've heard – you might actually get a chance to rest up a bit, not be chasing all over creation looking after everyone."

"Jim!" Blair protested, but stopped himself when Hannah appeared in the doorway, a tray with three steaming mugs of coffee in her hands.

"Yo tol' 'em?" she asked, though there was no question in her voice. "We's sorry," she said to them. "Sorry t' be greetin' ya'll with such news."

Taking a mug, Jim shook his head forcefully. "You and H got nothing to be sorry for, Hannah," he replied, his tone stern but kind. "Sounds to me like a whole lotta people owe the two of you an apology. I'm sorry we weren't here. That you've had to deal with this."

"Non, non, yore brother, he needed you, Jim, and t'was good you went t' him," she demurred. "They's jes mean-spirited people, an' tha's not yore fault."

Blair sipped at his coffee, and was glad of its bitter strength. "You say there were as many in the wagon train as live in town," he pondered. "Where are they all living now?"

"Kincaid says they got rights to the land east of here that borders on Simon and Joel's place," Brown told them. "They're setting up as farmers, mostly. Though I heard talk that they might be bringin' in sheep."

"Oh, great," Jim sighed as he rolled his eyes. "The man really does want a war, doesn't he?"

"Looks like," Brown agreed with a grimace of disgust.

"How are Simon and Joel taking all this?" Blair asked.

"Not well," Henri replied. "But they're being sensible. When they come into town now – which isn't often – they have most of their riders with them. They don't want to provoke a fight … but they're showin' they won't back down from one, either."

"They's too many t' fight," Hannah said as she leaned the tray against the wall and crossed her arms. "Yo know it's true, Henri," she went on sharply. Looking at Jim and Blair, she went on, "Sho, they has their women and chill'uns with them, but they's at least forty men in that mob that must've been rebel soldiers and they knows how to handle their guns. Yo cain't fight dem all, Jim. Not even you can fight dem all."

Jim handed his empty mug to her. "We'll see, Hannah," he returned, his voice tight. "But don't you worry about that tonight." He tipped his hat to her and held out his hand to Brown. "Thank you both for a fine homecoming. Was a wonderful dinner and we're both real glad to see you all again. But it's getting late, and I need to go relieve the new 'deputy' of his duties. We won't be needing his services anymore."

"Jim," Brown began, a warning in his voice.

"I'm the Sheriff," Jim cut in, his expression determined. "And until this town tells me different, _I_ decide who wears a deputy's badge in Bitterwood Creek."

A smile quirked the corner of Henri's mouth. "Like I said earlier, we're real glad to have the two of you back."

Blair saluted Hannah and slapped Brown on the arm as he followed Jim down off the porch. "See you tomorrow," he called over his shoulder, as they untied their horses. Wordlessly, they led Lobo and Butternut across the street and down along the narrow alley beside their house, to the stable in back. As they unsaddled, Blair murmured, "I'm going with you."

"I know," Jim said with a slow smile. "Just keep your badge in your pocket, like always."

Blair thought about that as he draped the saddle and blanket over the half-wall of the stall. He forked hay into the mangers, while Jim drew water from the well and filled the troughs. As they carried their saddlebags and bedrolls inside, he said, "You know, I think it might be time I started wearing the badge."

"Chief," Jim retorted, "you're not a gunman. I don't want you caught in the middle of this."

"Maybe it's time I learned," he returned, and held up his hand to stave off Jim's objections. "Hear me out, Jim," he argued. "From what H said, this is a bad situation that's fixing to get worse. Hannah's right. You can't go up against them all alone."

"You're the doctor, Sandburg," Jim sighed as he pulled off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "And I won't be alone. There are good men in this town – and Simon and Joel's bunch'll back me, just like they were willing to back H."

"I wonder if I _am_ still the doctor," Blair muttered morosely, turning away to walk through his small infirmary to the hall that led to the front of the house. "Guess we'll have to see."

"C'mon, you don't think everyone in this town, or all the folks hereabouts are going to stop coming to you? They aren't all damned fools," Jim contested. "Though, I have to say, I really wouldn't mind if you had a lighter load. You're still recovering, Blair. You need to take it easy."

"I won't turn anyone away," he replied with a challenging look.

"Yeah, I know," Jim said as they dropped their bags at the foot of the stairs. Looping his arm around Blair's shoulders as they went out the front door, he went on, "But you can't fault me for hoping that there are a few idiots who'll keep taking their problems to Ambrose."

"He's no doctor, Jim."

"I know that, too – anyone with half a brain in this town knows that, Chief."

"I hoped … I hoped I'd be past this," Blair admitted then, with a troubled glance down the street at the apothecary shop. "After so many years here…"

"Don't buy trouble, Chief," Jim counseled, pausing for a moment before he entered his office to look down at Blair. "You had more than enough patients before this new crowd showed up. I suspect most of 'em will be glad you're back."

"Guess we'll see," Blair sighed. "If they're not too afraid to be seen coming to me."

Jim's lips tightened, and then he turned to shoulder open the door. As they walked inside, he eyed the man behind his desk who was rising to his feet. "McBride, I'm Sheriff Ellison."

Surprised flashed over his face, but though McBride smiled easily, he studiously ignored Blair and his tone had an edge as he responded, "It's good to meet you, sir. Glad to know you're finally back in town."

"Uh huh," Jim grunted. "Now that I'm back, you can go on home." Holding out his hand, he added bluntly, "And you won't be needin' that badge anymore, so I'll take it before you go."

McBride's eyes narrowed. "Now, you don't want to be too hasty, Sheriff. I'm proud to help keep the peace in town. And, uh, Colonel Kincaid, well, he's counting on me to lend a hand. Why, when we arrived … well, there's no need to rely on a _boy_ when there's men to keep the law."

Still waiting for the badge, silence stretched while Jim glared at the man until a flush began to creep up McBride's neck. Finally, Jim replied, his voice icily calm but holding the cutting tones of command, "Bitterwood Creek has more than enough fine deputies, _all_ of them good and brave _men_ who have served this town for years. So long as I'm Sheriff, they will continue to serve. You can tell _Mister_ Kincaid I've relieved you of duty."

"The _Colonel_ might have something to say about that, sir," McBride challenged.

A cold smile curved the edge of Jim's mouth. "Well, I'll look forward to hearing what Kincaid has to say. Give him my regards when you see him." But the smile disappeared as he added, "The badge. I'll take it now."

With clear reluctance, McBride unpinned the star as he came out from behind the desk. For a moment, he paused, his lip curling with contempt as his glance cut to Blair. "You're makin' a mistake, Sheriff," he advised, belligerence in his eyes as he returned his gaze to Jim. "Never a good idea to turn away good help."

"No, it's not," Jim agreed, plucking the badge from McBride's fingers. "Good help – men I'd trust to watch my back – isn't at all that easy to find." Leaning past Blair, he opened the door, and held it wide. "Get out."

Anger at the insult flashed in the man's eyes, but he gave a single, stiff nod. Pulling down the brim of his hat, shouldering roughly past Blair, he strode out the door. Jim slammed it behind him.

"Well, I'd say that went well," Jim observed mildly, moving around the desk to toss the tin star into the desk drawer.

"Yeah?" Blair breathed, not sure whether he felt proud of his partner or just plain scared. "Funny," he went on, his voice tight with trepidation, "I thought I heard a declaration of war."

Pursing his lips and cocking one brow, Jim said slowly, "Maybe."

When Blair grimaced and shook his head, Jim shrugged. "I heard what H and Hannah said, Chief. And I understand this could get messy. But no one is going to come in here and ride roughshod over our people, not so long as I'm wearing this badge."

Blair couldn't help the small smile as he looked up at his partner. "Welcome home," he murmured, his tone now warm with approval, though fear still knotted in his gut. He tilted his head toward the street. "Ready to do our rounds?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am," Jim agreed, skirting around the desk. "Time to let this town know we're back." But then he hesitated and turned back; pulling open the drawer, he picked up the little star and held it thoughtfully.

"Jim, do you think that's a good idea?" Blair questioned uncertainly. "You don't want to make him a target."

Looking up, Jim's expression tightened. "No, I don't," he agreed. "But I think that has to be his choice, not ours."

Blair's lips thinned, but he nodded and followed Jim back out onto the street, and across to Brown's house.

When Henri answered, he seemed surprised to see them again so soon. Behind him, Hannah looked up from scrubbing the table.

Holding out the badge in the palm of his hand, Jim said, "This is yours; up to you whether you wear it or not."

Henri's lips parted and he didn't seem to know what to say as he studied the star. Hannah stiffened, and then came to stand behind him, her arms crossed and her lips tightly compressed, as if she was biting off words. Blair could too easily understand their mute communication. Brown had a family to take care of … a lot more to risk than he and Jim did. "We'd understand if … well, if you think …. H, you have to think about the girls. We know that."

Henri looked up at him, and then back over his shoulder at his wife. For a moment, she held his gaze, but then her eyes dropped and her shoulders sagged as she nodded with a small sigh. Brown took a deep breath and turned back to face them. Taking the badge from Jim, he finally offered, "I'll keep this an' put it on when it's necessary but … maybe, maybe I could just, uh, do the rounds with you, like the Doc does – you know, without wearin' it."

Jim clasped his shoulder. "That's more'n good enough for me." He tipped his hat to Hannah and stepped back. Brown reached just inside the door for his Stetson and, strapping on the gunbelt he'd also pulled from a peg, moved out into the night to walk with them as they patrolled the town.

Light spilled out of the saloon along with the lively honky-tonk plunking of the harpsichord but, otherwise, the main street was quiet in the lengthening shadows cast by the nearly-set sun. The bank and the bakeshop, the apothecary and the telegraph office were all long closed for the night. Further along, Jim and Blair eyed the skeletons of the new buildings that Kincaid was having erected. Once they were finished, the core of the town would feel crowded and closed in, with few open spaces to give a glimpse of the prairie, the nearby river shrouded by its bordering sycamores, or the little creek that ran under the willows, oak and aspen. Jim scowled, but he didn't say anything as they strode past the schoolyard toward the residential end of town. Lights glowed behind curtained windows and they could hear voices, if not make out any words.

They swung past the church and the little graveyard, and headed back on the opposite side of the street. When they reached the hotel, they turned in, and Blair smiled to see Megan Conner sitting behind the reception desk, her head bent over her accounts. When she glanced up, perhaps expecting to see one of her guests returning from the saloon next door, she did a double take and then, a wide smile wreathing her face, she leapt to her feet and hurried around the end of the desk.

"Jim! Blair!" she cheered, "you're back!"

The warmth of her welcome eased some of the tension Blair had felt building as they'd done their rounds, and he gladly returned her hug with the enthusiasm of an old friend.

"Ah, the two of you are a sight for sore eyes," she told them, then hesitated as she searched Jim's face. "Your journey? Did you find your brother? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine," Jim assured her.

But Henri snorted and chuckled as he added, "Wait till you hear the story. 'Fine', now, maybe, but it had its hair-raisin' moments. Apaches, crooked railroaders –"

"What!" she exclaimed and swept her gaze over them again. "Well, you seem to be in one piece and still have all your hair. But I want to hear all the details. Supper, here, tomorrow."

Blair smiled and nodded. "Sounds like too good an invitation to refuse." Glancing at Jim, he added cheekily, "Especially since we haven't had time to restock our larder yet."

She batted his arm but laughed. "I am glad you're back. And," she went on as she gazed at Brown, "I'm glad to see you're making the rounds again, too. The last few weeks have been … unsettling, to say the least."

"Kincaid giving you any grief?" Jim demanded, all amusement gone from his voice and eyes.

Crossing her arms as if chilled, she shook her head. "Not directly, not yet," she said, her lips thinning. "But I've heard he's made unflattering comments about women not knowing their place." Her eyes flashed. "I almost wish he would say something to my face. I'd like to give that boyo a piece of my mind and maybe even the flat of my hand."

Blair's brows arched under his hat and he had difficulty hiding his grin at her robust confidence. Kincaid had better watch his step around Connor – she wasn't one to suffer fools at all gladly.

"Well, we'd best be on our way. Just wanted to let you know we're back – and if Kincaid or any of his bunch give you any trouble, you let me know," Jim told her as he tipped his hat.

"Don't forget, supper, tomorrow night," she reminded them and hugged them again for good measure before walking them to the door.

Back on the boardwalk, they continued the few steps to the saloon and pushed their way through the batwing doors. The place was as busy as ever, with a card game going on at a corner table, and the ladies of the night flirting with the cowhands and drifters. Blair glanced around and saw a good number of unfamiliar faces, but that wasn't unusual. Some, though, looked up and scowled when they saw Brown, and he wondered if they were some of Kincaid's men or if one of those present was Kincaid himself.

"Sheriff! Doc! Welcome back!" Moe Gurney, the bartender called loudly, his greeting unusually effusive and, with a nod, he acknowledged Brown, "Deputy. Good to see y'all. The usual?"

Jim nodded as he approached the bar and several men shifted aside to make room for them. "Moe," he greeted as Gurney drew three mugs of his homebrewed ale. "I see business is booming as usual."

Gurney shrugged. "Summer's hot and dusty. Man's gotta wet his whistle," he replied and set the foaming mugs in front of them.

"Yeah, and in the winter, it's cold, so a man needs to warm his insides," Jim returned with a tight half-smile.

"As you say, Sheriff," Moe allowed and unbent enough to add a wink. Wiping the polished wooden bar with a rag, he lowered his voice and flicked a look at strangers clustered around two tables at the far end of the room. "New folks done moved in while you were gone."

"So I heard," Jim replied as he took a sip. "Also heard there's talk of there maybe bein' a new saloon built. Silas concerned at all?"

Again Gurney shrugged. "Lots'a business for everyone," he said guardedly. "You'd best talk to Silas himself to get his views." His gaze again drifted to the men glaring at them from the end of the room and then, grimacing as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, he hawked into the spittoon behind the bar. Turning back to them, he leaned his elbow on the bar. "They's trouble, no doubt about it. Just don't know how much, yet."

"Guess we'll find out," Jim replied, his voice low and dry.

"McBride was in a little while ago. Looked a mite riled. Saw he ain't wearing the star no more," Moe observed.

"No, no he's not," Jim agreed. "No need, now that I'm back."

"You met Kincaid yet?"

"Not yet."

A humorless smile cracked Gurney's stubbled visage. You watch yer back, Jim," he counseled. "Man likes to pretend he's quality, but he's a sidewinder, pure and simple."

A slow smile creasing Jim's face, he nodded and cocked his brow at he glanced at Blair. Moe had rarely, if ever, been so forthcoming; he was more often surly and downright sour on occasion. The fact that he was being so clear about his loyalties was both gratifying and worrying. Kincaid evidently had him spooked – and Moe Gurney wasn't a man who spooked easily.

"Thanks, Moe," Jim replied as he tossed coins on the bar to cover their beers. "Appreciate the advice."

"Hey!" a man called aggressively from the end of the bar. "We gotta wait all night to be served? Or mebbe we just oughtta find somewhere's else to drink, if'n yer gonna serve nigras and Jews in here."

Moe shook his head and grimaced. Moving at his own studied pace, he turned to face the irate customer. "We serve all free men, here," he called back. "You don't like it – you c'n go."

"Why you –" the lout shouted and his hand started to move toward his gun.

Moe brought a shotgun into view and cocked it. The music and high-pitched laughter died as everyone in the saloon stiffened. "You wanna a drink, a bellyful of lead, or you had enough for the night?" he asked into the silence as if he didn't much care what the ruffian chose.

Slowly, Jim shifted to put himself between the potential trouble and Blair, his hand hovering over his own weapon.

The stranger's gaze flickered between Moe and the three of them, and his lip curled. "Scum," he spit, but his own hand eased away from his sidearm. "The Colonel's not gonna be happy when he hears about this," he warned, his steely gaze going back to meet Moe's stony eyes.

When Gurney just shrugged, the troublemaker snorted and yanked his hat down over his brow. "You better watch yer step, barkeep," he growled, but he waved his companions toward the door. "We won't fergit this."

"Guess that means you don't wanna 'nother drink," Moe replied, seemingly unfazed by the threats. Once they'd marched out, stiff with hostility and disgust written on their faces, he put the shotgun back under the bar. He nodded to the piano player, who struck up a tune. The card players tossed chips onto their table as they went back to their game and, gradually, the rumble of talk and high-pitched laughter resumed.

"That happen often?" Jim asked.

"No more'n once a night," Moe returned phlegmatically. "Till they git their own saloon built, they ain't got much choice but to come on back here with their business." He began filling more mugs with ale in response to orders called from down the bar. "Have t' say, though, I'm glad yer back, Sheriff. You, too, Doc. Town ain't been the same without you." He moved away to serve the drinks, and to pour shots of whisky for other customers.

"Well," Blair muttered, "that was interesting."

Jim just nodded, his expression guarded, as he sipped on his beer.

Brown upended his mug, swallowing until it was empty, and then he carefully placed it back on the bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. "Damn," he rumbled.

"Yeah," Blair sighed in agreement. Though Moe's evident partisanship had been encouraging, and Megan's greetings warm, he found himself looking around the saloon at all the men he knew who wouldn't meet his eyes, and those he didn't, who cast him and Brown cool looks of speculation. His shoulders sagged in weariness and discouragement as he turned back to the bar. All he'd wanted, all he'd thought about for the past days on the trail was being home, and finally being able to relax and breathe easily with nothing more to worry about than some kid with the croup or a complicated delivery. Now all he felt was unsettled and anxious, and afraid that the home he'd longed for didn't really exist. Might never exist.

"C'mon, Doc," Jim said, briefly touching his shoulder to get his attention. "It's late, and we've made our point. Looks like all the action is over for the time being, and Hannah's waitin' up for H. Let's call it a night."

Wordlessly, he nodded. They waved at Moe and turned to head back out into the darkness.

* * *

Jim scanned the street with his senses, seeking any sign of impending ambush from the disgruntled men who'd stormed out of the saloon, but all was quiet. After watching Brown cross the wide dusty road and enter his home, he guided Blair down the dark alleyway to the back. While Blair bedded down their horses for the night, he hauled buckets of water for the trough, and then a last one, to carry inside for their nightly ablutions. All the while, he monitored his partner, and worried about him.

Blair's evident despair was all too plain, and was unlike the man, who was inclined to hide his hurts automatically, unconsciously. Jim had had to work hard to get him to open up, at least in the privacy of their home, or in quiet moments when they were alone. Futile anger flared at a world that he couldn't control, couldn't make safe … couldn't make see that men like Blair and Henri, Simon and Joel were so good as to be rare and should be respected, even cherished, not reviled. The foul ignorance and arrogance that was poisoning Bitterwood Creek was something Jim didn't fully understand and left him feeling helpless, except to confront it head-on – an approach that all too clearly left both Sandburg and Brown feeling vulnerable and, God help them, maybe even ashamed. As if the trouble was their fault.

Jim knew that Blair's despondency was, in no small part, fueled by his lack of energy and innate vitality. The kid hadn't fully recovered from all he'd given and endured in the last few months. But that realization only served to heighten Jim's anxiety. Blair needed rest but, from what he'd seen and heard since their homecoming, Jim was sorely afraid that tranquility was going to be a hard commodity to find in the next weeks and months.

Why the hell had Kincaid and his bunch decided to settle here? Why couldn't they have kept on going to spread their hate somewhere else?

Sighing, he shook his head. Questions like that were a waste of time. They had to deal with the here and now. When Blair came out of the privy, he looped his arm around his friend's shoulders as they walked across the earthen yard. Inside, they trooped into the kitchen. Jim pushed Blair down onto a chair by the table, and his partner didn't argue the gesture, just dropped his hat on the table and, closing his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall. Jim lit the stove to heat the water, and then a lantern.

"You want some tea?" he asked into the silence that stretched between them.

"No, thanks. Just want to clean some of this dust off my body and go to bed."

"The water'll take a few minutes to heat."

Blair just nodded and lapsed back into silence.

Jim took their hats to hang on pegs by the front door, where he usually also hung his gunbelt. But he hesitated and decided to keep his weapons close, at least until he got a better handle on Kincaid. Could be, the man was just a bully who would back down when confronted. If so, the current tensions in town might resolve themselves without violence. But … it was too soon to tell.

Returning to the kitchen, he loosened the buttons on his shirt. Blair hadn't moved. Hunkering down beside him, Jim gripped his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chief," he murmured.

A wisp of a smile played over Blair's lips. Then he sat up and leaned forward. "'S not your fault," he replied. But his shadowed gaze grew distant and he looked away, his expression sad.

The water in the pot began a low roiling that only Jim could hear, but it signaled that it had grown warm enough to wash themselves. He squeezed Blair's shoulder and then rose to dump half of the slightly steaming water into their basin. "C'mon," he encouraged, "you go first, and then head up to bed."

Blair stood and pulled off his shirt. Taking a clean rag and a bar of homemade soap from the shelf over the work table, he washed his face and neck, his arms and chest, and then Jim took the cloth to wash the sweat and dust from his back. Though he knew the scars no longer hurt, he was gentle and felt the same pangs of rage and pathos he always did when he saw the ugly marks of the lash that had nearly killed Blair years ago. "Get out of your jeans and boots, and I'll wash your feet."

For a moment, he thought Blair might protest that he could wash himself, but then, with a weary nod, Blair stripped and sat down. Jim lifted the basin to the floor and, kneeling, he quickly finished off the cursory sponge bath. Once he'd dried Blair's feet, he urged, "Go on, I'll be up in a few minutes. Leave the saddlebags. I'll take care of them."

"Thanks," Blair replied as he stood to head upstairs, pausing only to give him a brief smile.

Jim tossed out the water made filthy by the grime of their miles of travel since leaving Wichita, and then refilled the metal bowl to wash himself. When he'd finished, after dumping the water out the back door and cleaning the basin, he grabbed their clothing and his gunbelt. In the hall, he gathered up their saddlebags and trudged up the dark stairs.

Covered with a light sheet, Blair was curled on the bed, his face toward the open window. From the sound of his breathing, Jim could tell he was still awake. "It'll be okay," he offered, hoping he wasn't making empty promises.

"Will it?" Blair breathed. He stirred and then shifted onto his back to stare up into the darkness. His voice was low, barely audible, and hesitating as he continued, "I've seen this before, Jim; been through it before. Once people have another choice, another doctor, they … they stop coming to me for help. That's when …" his voice cracked, "that's when I know it's time to move on. But, but I'd hoped, you know, that I was past that here. That this was a place I might be able to stay." Turning his gaze toward Jim, he asked, "Would you … would you be willing to leave Bitterwood Creek?"

Jim's heart ached at the lost, sorrowful tones and words and, for a moment, his throat was too tight to speak. Sandburg deserved so much better than this – had earned so much better. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he gathered Blair up into his arms, and held him close, his lips on his partner's brow. "Don't be so quick to write everyone off," he encouraged. "You've got a lot of friends in this town, Chief. And they're all ungrateful fools if they turn their backs on you now. But, if it comes to that, all that really keeps me here is you. If the time comes and you decide it's time to move on, you just say when and where, and I'll be leaving with you."

Blair's arms came up around him to hug him back. "Thanks," he whispered. He drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "This Kincaid. It could be bad, Jim. Real bad. Deadly, if he pushes it."

Jim nodded. "I know," he murmured. "But we haven't met the man yet. Maybe he'll back off. We'll just have to see how it plays out."

"I don't want anyone killed, and I know Henri probably feels the same way – that's why he backed off and took his girls out of the school. For their safety, sure, but for the safety of anyone else who might have stood up for him and them." After a moment, he added, "I wonder what Simon and Joel think about everything that's happening."

"That's something else we need to find out, Chief. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, you're tired right out and you need to sleep."

Against his shoulder, he felt Blair's face crease in a smile. "Determined to take care of me, huh?"

"Somebody has to," Jim agreed with a low chuckle. "Let it go for tonight, Blair, okay? Let it go."

Blair nodded and extricated himself to lie back down.

Jim listened until he heard Blair's breathing deepen into sleep. But he didn't want to leave Blair alone by heading to his own room just yet; he sat and stared into the darkness as he thought about what Blair had said. It galled him to think people would give up their homes and move on in the face of such virulent hostility; it wasn't fair. Sighing, he could also understand why people would choose to run rather than fight; sometimes the price of battle just wasn't worth it. But it wasn't in his nature to run, to let bastards like Kincaid win. Wasn't in his nature to give up. And this was his fight, too. Not just Blair's or Brown's or Simon's and Joel's. This was about friendship and, on a broader level, about equality and decency. Grimacing, he shook his head as he wondered what the future would hold. He really wanted to believe the town would rally behind them – but he knew all too well how corrosive fear could be.

But he wouldn't solve anything sitting here. He stood and, crossing the hall, climbed into his own bed. Rolling on his side, he closed his eyes and gave himself the advice he'd given Blair. _Let it go for tonight. See what tomorrow brings._

* * *

Jim woke to a touch on his hand, and the feeling of something warm and heavy being slipped onto his finger. Blinking in the bright sunlight streaming in through the window, he lifted his head and saw Blair smiling at him.

"Morning."

"Morning to you, too, Chief. Ah, what's this?" he asked as he lifted his hand and studied the gold signet ring with a dark blue polished stone. The light flashed on the stone and he squinted, then looked closer at the star he could see in its depths.

"It's a star sapphire," Blair explained as he hitched a hip onto the side of the bed. "When I saw it, I thought of your name, 'Brave Star', and it just seemed appropriate, you know?"

"But, how, where …?" Jim gabbled, well aware that his partner couldn't afford such a luxury. And then he frowned. "And why?"

"Well, the how and where is easy," Blair replied with a cheeky grin. "I got it from Ezra Standish. You know how he was always asking questions, curious about who we were, where we came from?" When Jim nodded, he went on, "Well, one time when he came to keep me company and play some cards, I noticed this ring, said it made me think of you. He wanted to know why." Blair shrugged. "When I hesitated, he said he'd trade the ring for the story … so I gave him an abridged version of our visit with Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters. And, since that didn't seem like enough for such a great ring, I also told him pretty much what happened in Geronimo's camp. He loved the stories, especially since you and Toby hadn't been telling them much; I think he relished the idea of knowing stuff the others didn't. Anyway, he seemed to think it was a fair trade."

Amused, Jim relaxed. "And the why?" he prompted.

"That's a little more complicated," Blair replied, a slight flush blooming on his stubbled cheeks. "Well, first, today is the anniversary of when you saved my life last summer."

When Jim winced and looked away, he hurried on, "I know you don't like to think about that time, but it means the world to me. I _like_ to remember it. And, second …" Hesitating, his teeth worried at his lower lip. "There's no way anyone else can ever understand what we mean to one another. We can't exactly stand up and announce to the world that we're, well, soul brothers, sentinel and guide united in a way they could never understand. But, what you said last night? That you're only here because of me? Well, I feel the same way, Jim. Home isn't a place. It's you. It's us together. I guess … I guess this ring is my way of saying I pledge myself to you. For always. Just, I don't know, seemed right to do that on the anniversary of the _first_ time you gave my life back to me." Once again he paused, then rushed on, the flush on his face deepening. "And I know we don't get all sentimental and stupid about stuff. But … but you're my bright, brave star, the only star that matters in my sky."

Blair looked so earnest and intense as he spouted the sentimental drivel that _deserved_ to make him blush, that Jim didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Swallowing the lump in his throat, with a thin-lipped smile he pushed himself up to embrace Blair tightly. "Thanks, Chief," he finally managed to say without chuckling. The sentiment might've been a bit much, but the love underneath was something he cherished as the most valued gift in his life. "I'll wear it with pride."

Drawing away, he studied the ring appreciatively. "And you know, I think this is the best birthday present I've ever gotten – by far."

"It's your birthday!" Blair exclaimed, his smile illuminating his face – a face that was still too thin and wan, so far as Jim was concerned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jim shrugged. "Never seemed important, I guess."

Shaking his head, laughing, Blair punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Happy Birthday," he half-sang. "I'll have to make sure Megan has a cake baked for our dinner tonight. How many candles?"

Jim snorted and gave him a soft whap on the side of his head. "Never mind how many candles, short stuff. And nobody else needs to know it's my birthday, either. Let's just keep that our little secret. You know I hate a lot of fussin'."

"Yeah, I know, tough guy," Blair replied, his tone indulgent.

He stood and stepped away from the bed, but Jim caught his arm. "I love the ring, Chief. I love what it means even more. Thank you."

Pleased, Blair ducked his head. "Good," he murmured. "I'm glad." Tugging loose, he went on with a grin, "Guess I'd better get busy making the birthday boy's breakfast. I think we've got enough flour left, and I'll run across and get some milk and eggs from Hannah. Maybe she'll even have some blueberries. Since you don't want a cake tonight, how about hotcakes this morning?"

"Sounds just about perfect."

When Blair left and bounced cheerfully down the stairs, Jim wondered if his partner was feeling better than he had the night before, or if he was just seeing Blair's usual trick of burying what bothered him. Looking at the ring, though, he couldn't help but smile. Regardless, at least they both knew what really mattered and where they stood with each other. Bitterwood Creek was where they hung their hats. But home? That was something else entirely.

His bright, brave star, huh? Chuckling, he shook his head. But he couldn't deny the warmth that filled his chest or the pride he felt to be the star in Blair's firmament.

His musings were shattered by the loud clatter of horses racing past the house and he frowned. There was always some idiot who rode pell-mell through town, too dumb to realize the risks or how easily he might trample someone. But this deliberate daily rampage felt like a form of not-so-subtle intimidation to him. This Kincaid was sure pulling every stunt he could to make his presence felt and to keep the townspeople on edge. Grimacing, Jim shook his head as he finished dressing and wondered just how much trouble the man would pose in the days, weeks and months ahead.

* * *

Later that morning, Jim was sorting through the circulars that had come in during his long absence. When he saw the wanted poster on Vin Tanner, he crumpled it in his fist and tossed it in the trash basket under the desk. The office door opened, and he looked up to see a man his age, maybe a few years older, with light sandy hair, cool blue eyes and a determined mouth. Well built if not as tall, he looked strong, in good shape, and he was dressed in a gray shirt and pants, with a darker gray short jacket. A matched set of pearl-handled pistols hung low on his hips. His boots didn't look like he spent much time mucking out in them, and there was no dust marring the pristine gray suede of his Stetson. When he spoke, his southern drawl came as no surprise.

"Sheriff Ellison? I'm Garrett Kincaid," he said, his tone amiable enough, but the friendly tone didn't warm the ice in his eyes.

"Kincaid. What can I do for you?" Jim asked, his own voice cool as he sat back and looked up from under the brim of his hat.

"Well, more like what I can do for you," Kincaid went on as he drew up a chair to sit down. "Welcome back, Sheriff. From all I hear, you've had a long journey. I trust your father and your brother are well?"

"Just fine," Jim replied, but he offered nothing more.

"Well, that's good news. I imagine your father will be glad to get back to Philadelphia. Not easy for a man of his means to leave his business interests idle for so long. One of the most powerful industrialists in the country, isn't he? A man of influence. And your brother, Steven, has already made his mark on the Western Pacific Railroad. A remarkable family. Why, you yourself have a reputation for being a fine career officer, serving your country with distinction and now, here you are, upholding the law in this vast, new land."

Crossing his arms, Jim quirked a brow. "I'm sure there's a point to all this," he remarked, boredom warring with challenge in his gaze.

Unfazed by his tone or unveiled antipathy, Kincaid smiled coldly. "Why, only acknowledging your sterling heritage and your undoubted courage. You're a man who can _command_ respect; and one I'd like to get to know a whole lot better. I think, despite our different views on the recent unpleasantness between the states, we have a good deal in common."

"That so?"

"Indeed it is, Sheriff. My people are setting down roots here and we hope to make this a great city some day. But, for now, we're content to do our part to improve this town in any way we can; make our contribution. Now, I know you've had to handle the peacekeeping here pretty much on your own.You've not had good, solid men to back you up – just shopkeepers, mostly." Kincaid shook his head as if he regretted being so long in coming to the rescue. "Now, all that's changed. I've got more than four dozen strong men, who have seen action and know how to handle trouble. Any one of them is at your disposal at any time."

"I've got all the deputies I need," Jim replied. "If that's all?"

"Ah, come now, Sheriff. I appreciate that you may be reluctant to ask newcomers to carry more than you think is their share," Kincaid returned, his tone hardening. "But a man of quality like yourself shouldn't be relying on _boys_ , not when there are good men ready and willing to back you up. One thing to cope out of necessity; another to wallow in the swill with the hogs for no good reason. You want to be careful that you don't tarnish your reputation, or lose the respect that you've earned."

Jim's gaze dropped as he struggled to master the rage that erupted at the man's callous arrogance. Grimacing as if at a bad smell, he brushed at his nose and shook his head. Looking up, meeting Kincaid's challenging stare, he replied with icy deliberation, "I have good _men_ backing me up – the best. Men who have saved my life and who I trust."

Kincaid snorted. "You can't be serious," he chuckled, as if they were sharing a joke. "Why, you rode into this town past a quarantine flag to stop the bank from being robbed. You're a hero, descended from the best stock that settled this great country and wrested it away from the savages they found here. There's no honor in pretending to respect darkies; they're no more'n animals – less than animals, 'cause they have no capacity for loyalty. Or, worse, to align yourself with one of the race that killed our Lord. No sir. You best rethink my offer, here, Sheriff. You'll be sorry if you don't."

Leaning forward to place his elbows on the desk, and clasping his hands together to keep himself from leaping up to drive his fist into that supercilious smile, Jim took a breath. "Kincaid, I have no idea why you felt you had to stop here when there are so many other places you could have gone to spread your corrupt poison. If I had my way, I'd run you out of town right now, just on general principle. You're arrogant, and you're a fool – not a good combination. If you've done your homework, you'll know damned well I'm not the only hero who came into town past that quarantine flag. Doctor Sandburg saved any number of lives in this town – there's not a family here that he hasn't helped. And Simon Banks is a pillar of this community, has been for over twenty years, along with Joel Taggart. As for Henri Brown, he's lived here for years, become a successful businessman, and has put his _life_ on the line for the people here."

"Runaway slaves and a Jew who was looking to take advantage of people in distress," Kincaid scoffed. "Hardly the sort anyone would want associated with their families. Why, I wouldn't allow that so-called doctor, more like a charlatan, to touch me or mine with his filthy hands."

"If you're relying on Milt Ambrose, then I hope you never suffer serious illness or injury, because you'll die," Jim retorted with heavy contempt. Standing, unable to stomach the man's presence, he gestured toward the door. "I think we're done here. You and your people abide by the law, treat every citizen in this town and around here with respect, and stay out of my way. If you can't do that, then you'd best tell your people to stay away from Bitterwood Creek." He swallowed and then grated, "Better still, given all the building I see you're doing in town, maybe it would be a good idea to either move on or built your own town somewhere else, since nothing much here seems to be low enough to meet your standards."

Coming to his feet, Kincaid shook his head. "Your attitude is unfortunate, Sheriff. I had hoped we might be friends." Straightening, his expression flattening, he threatened, "I intend to ensure we soon have elections in Bitterwood Creek, to appoint a proper town council. And I expect to be successful in my campaign to be mayor of this fair community. Be advised, your term as Sheriff will depend very much upon my judgment as to your … fitness for this important post. Could be, Ellison, that you'll be the one moving on. If you're still alive to go."

"Is that a threat?"

"Merely a warning. This town is growing, getting busier all the time, what with all the transients passing through. You've got a dangerous job, and without the right backup, your life could very well be at risk." Turning toward the door, Kincaid added, "Think about it, Sheriff. I'm not a particularly patient man, but I'll give you a day or two to come to your senses."

"It'll be a cold day in hell before I take your advice, Kincaid. You're just damned lucky this is a free country – something _you_ didn't fight to achieve – so I can't lock you up for being a bigot, and your freedom of speech lets you get away with spouting garbage. But you hear this. You threaten or harass _anyone_ under my jurisdiction and I'll throw your sorry ass in jail. We clear?"

"Abundantly, but I'm a man of my word, so you have two days to reconsider. After that, you're on your own," Kincaid retorted, his tone hard as he turned to the door.

"One more thing, Kincaid," Jim called. "Tell your men to quit riding roughshod through this town. It's damned dangerous, and one of these days someone is going to get hurt."

For a long moment, Kincaid glared at him. "This is _my_ town now, Ellison, and my men will do whatever they want," he growled, his fists clenched and fury in his eyes. "You best get used to that idea, real quick." He made a visible attempt to regain his temper. "Good day, _Sheriff_ ," he drawled with contempt as he strode out, slamming the door behind him.

"Yeah, right," Jim huffed and rolled his eyes. He yanked down the brim of his hat and stood with his head bowed, hands on his hips, as he thought about Kincaid and his threats. The man was too arrogant, too full of confidence to be a simple bully, though he was clearly used to getting his way through intimidation alone. Hell, he was drunk on his own power, reacting with cold fury when confronted. Jim would have liked it better if he'd blown up, lost it – the control Kincaid had shown was worrisome. He wore those guns like he knew how to use them, he understood power – and he was sure enough of his superiority to not only give warning but to allow time for Jim to marshal his own resources.

This man was going to make a very dangerous enemy. And it didn't help that he had a small army to back him up.

His mouth twisting, Jim shook his head. There was no way of predicting how Kincaid would play it. All that talk about wanting to run for mayor sounded as if he might try to maintain a pretense of being an upstanding citizen. That could make things a lot tougher to deal with, because the attacks, when they came, would be from the shadows.

He thought about Blair and Henri, and how vulnerable they'd both be if they continued as his deputies. Kincaid and his men would target them first, out of plain malice. Biting his lip, he wished he'd listened the night before when Blair had tried to discourage him from dragging Brown back into the fight. At the time, he'd wanted to make a few points about it being Henri's choice and about the fact that he respected the man. But now, he regretted not waiting until he'd had a better handle on the risks.

As for his partner? Jim closed his eyes and fought the quiver of fear in his chest. He'd rather face Kincaid and his men alone than risk Blair, but he knew there was no way Blair would allow that. He took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. He was just going to have to be extra careful to watch both their backs.

When he thought about Blair going out on his own to tend patients beyond the town, he had the disloyal hope that maybe people would be fools enough to rely on Ambrose. It would hurt Blair to be shunned, but … but the dangers of him being out there alone on the prairie made Jim shiver with foreboding. No. No way could Sandburg carry on as if everything was normal. No, he'd have to have an armed escort whenever he left town. Rubbing his mouth, Jim sorely wished that Toby had come back to Bitterwood Creek with them.

He was going to have to ask Simon and Joel to spare one of their men; there was no other choice. Jim had spotted a couple of the Gold Ribbon riders in the saloon the night before, so he knew their friends would know by now that they were back. Since there was no way of getting a message out to them without being spotted by Kincaid's men, he had to hope that they would soon come into town to welcome him and Blair home.

In the meantime, he had to get a whole lot better grip on where folks stood in town. Last night, Moe Gurney had been pretty clear, and Jim assumed that his boss, Silas McCready, would also resist Kincaid's desire to dominate, if only out of pure cussedness. The pugnacious saloon owner had once faced down the US Cavalry; he wasn't likely to be intimidated by Kincaid. But … the threat of losing his business to another saloon might give him pause. Hard to say, but if he had to wager, he'd bet on McCready being as irascibly independent as ever. And it would be interesting to see where Sam Sloan stood. Simon and Joel were his richest depositors, and that by a very wide margin.

Deciding that speculation was a waste of time, Jim headed out to do the rounds of the town and its informal leaders.

* * *

Once Blair had cleaned up the kitchen, he dusted his office and treatment room, making sure he was ready for any walk-in patients. One hour passed, and then another, and he wondered if Bitterwood Creek was enjoying a spell of unprecedented good health. Snorting to himself, working hard to stifle the bitterness that threatened, and the sorrow, he pulled on his hat and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

The late June morning was scorching, and there was no wind to lighten the stifling humidity. He looked up at the empty sky, wishing for clouds that would signal a storm and a break in the weather. Bemused by his idle hopes, reflecting that it seemed he was never satisfied, for when it was cold and damp he wished for heat, he stepped down onto the broad street and crossed to the apothecary.

"Milt," he greeted, as he walked inside. "Wanted to let you know I'm back. How've things been?"

Ambrose looked up from a powder he was crushing with a pestle, and appeared surprised to see him. "Doc," he replied, and then seemed … awkward. "Didn't know you were back."

"Yeah, got in late yesterday afternoon. We stopped at the Browns' for dinner," Blair replied, striving to maintain an easy manner. He'd liked this man, had trusted him. Maybe Henri had it wrong. Maybe Milt wasn't looking to set himself up as another doctor in town. The idea of that happening worried Blair, not from the competition so much as from his certain knowledge that while Milt could handle some simple ailments and uncomplicated fractures, he was far from well enough qualified to deal with more serious problems. "Sorry we ended up being away a lot longer than originally planned."

"Uh, that's fine," Milt rejoined with a shrug. "I handled everything."

"Good," Blair replied. "I'm glad to hear that." And he was. He'd been worried that someone he'd learned to care about might've suffered from his absence. Had worried that anyone, whether he knew them or not, might have needed more knowledgeable care than Milt could have given. The silence that fell was uncomfortable, and he ventured, "I hear there's been a sizeable new group of settlers come into the area. And I see there's a lot of new building going on down the street."

"Yes, that's right. Fine man, name of Garrett Kincaid, led in a wagon train of folks that have doubled our population. He's got a lot of plans for Bitterwood Creek. Going to put us on the map."

Blair gave him a wry smile. "Funny, I thought we already were on the map."

Milt looked away, and then set his pestle down. "Look, there's no point beating around the bush here. I've offered my services to the newcomers as their new doctor, and Mr. Kincaid was right pleased about that."

"Milt, I can understand your … interest and willingness to help these people, but –"

"But nothing, Blair. I've got as much training and more'n most sawbones, an' I understand drugs better'n nearly any of 'em."

"No question, but you don't have a great deal of experience, no surgical experience at all … and you've not had any formal training," Blair returned. Lifting his hands, striving for peace between them, he went on, "Look, you have to do what your conscience dictates. But, if you need help, if you run into something you can't handle or haven't ever seen before, I hope you'll call me in to consult, that's all. So I can help you. It's about ensuring the people here get the best care possible, right? About helping them."

Milt crossed his arms. "That's a generous offer, no mistake," he allowed. "But … I don't think it'll come to that." He scratched his nose and then sighed. "The fact of the matter is that these people don't want to have nothin' to do with you. Nothin' personal. They just don't feel a Jew is anyone they want to associate with. You understand."

 _Nothing personal?_ Blair rubbed his mouth to give himself time to bite back on the several retorts that threatened. When he'd regained his composure, he simply nodded. "Yes, I understand. But the offer still holds. They don't necessarily need to know you're consulting me – and I'd rather help from a distance than think someone died because you didn't recognize the disease or know exactly how to treat a severe injury. And too many women and infants have died in childbirth in the history of this town to lose any more. So, it's up to you, Milt. Your call." He hesitated and then added, "I'm assuming that we'll still do business. That I can come here to acquire compounds or place orders for medicines."

His lips thinning, Milt shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no. My patients wouldn't approve of me doing business with you."

His gaze narrowing, Blair looked at him until Milt flushed and dropped his gaze. "Uh huh," Blair grunted, sorely disappointed in the man. "Nothing personal, right?" Without waiting for a response, he turned to leave the shop. "You know where to find me if you need my help."

Back outside, Blair could hear the industrious sawing and hammering from the construction sites in the center of town and he thought, bitterly, that they could be metaphorically, if not literally, pounding nails into his coffin. He felt as if the heavy, stifling air was suffocating him as he wrestled with his emotions to lock them down. Wasn't like he hadn't gone through this before in other places, other towns.

But he'd never felt quite so personally betrayed before. Hell, he'd taught Milt everything the man knew about doctoring. God, he was furious with the arrogance of the man, and his willingness to risk the lives of the people who would be trusting him. He was also swamped with the frustration and helplessness of being utterly impotent to intervene. The best he could hope for was that Ambrose would have the sense to come to him when he got in over his head. Unfortunately, he knew that wasn't likely to happen and men, women – and dammit, helpless little kids who didn't have any choice in the matter – would die, when their deaths might have been prevented. Blair felt sick to his soul that his heritage, his very being, was the stumbling block, the reason those people despised him. And he felt the gnawing of the old despair, the familiar sorrow and loneliness of knowing that once he was no longer needed, he was also no longer wanted.

He was about to retreat to the cocoon of his office when his gaze fell on the Sheriff's Office. _No,_ he reminded himself, _it's different this time. I'm not alone. I do have a place here. And … and if I don't, I won't be moving on alone._

Glancing at the hotel, he remembered Megan's welcome the night before, and that of Henri and his family. And he remembered Jim's counseling; that he had to give the town a chance, not just assume that they'd turn away from him now that Milt was setting up his own practice. Sure, some would be glad to never see his face again, and he could pretty much name them. But dammit, he did have friends in this town, and he needed to remember that, not be ready to give up so easily. So, okay, he'd give it time. With a population of nearly four hundred, there was certainly a need, still, for his services. Lifting his chin, all trace of the hurt and the old pain, of the anger and discouragement gone from his face, he set off along the boardwalk, determined to face the town. Determined to keep doing his best.

In a few steps, he was at the bakery, and he went in to greet Maisie Dunning. The stout, middle-aged widow's face was beet-red in the heat, and she looked tired, but her eyes lit and a smile bloomed when she looked up from setting out loaves of fresh bread. "Doc!" she cried, dusting off her hands. "You're back! Bless your heart, it's good to see you!"

"Hey, Maisie," he called, warmed by her welcome. "It's good to see you, too. How've you been keeping?"

"Oh, well enough," she told him as she fanned herself with a hand. "But this heat lays me out a bit," she went on. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee and a nice fresh scone with a bit of jam?"

"You sure can; I've missed your baking," he replied as he took a seat at the counter, glad to give her an excuse to slow down. He well knew that the hot, humid weather was hard on her, especially as she worked from before dawn every day in front of the hot ovens. "Why don't you sit a spell and bring me up to date on all the gossip?"

She set his coffee and small snack down, and bustled around the counter to sit beside him. "Don't mind if I do," she puffed.

He noted the swollen ankles peeking out from under her long, gingham skirt. When she patted him on the shoulder as she sat with a weary sigh, he captured her hand and pressed his fingertips to her wrist. Her pulse was pounding too fast and her hands, too, were puffy. "Maisie, I think you might need to take it a bit easier, especially in this heat," he murmured, concern in his eyes. "Have you been having any pain in your chest or arms? Or feel a kind of heaviness, making it hard to catch your breath?"

"No pain, Doc, just a bit tired," she told him. "Guess I'm not as young as I used t' be."

He nodded in understanding. "I want you to sit with your feet up as much as you can, you hear? And come over to the office later; I'll give you something to make into a tea, to help the swelling in your ankles and hands. I want you to eat as many fresh vegetables as you can and," he waved at the baked goods arrayed on her shelves, "don't be sampling your own wares. Save them for me and everyone else in this town to enjoy. Okay? Oh, and no more coffee for you – water. Lots of water."

She gave him a look of fond bemusement. "Hardly back an' you're already takin' care o' me." Heaving a big sigh, she admitted, "You're right. I've not been feeling myself this summer. Mentioned it to Milt Ambrose, but he told me it was just the heat and age catchin' up to me." Looking away, she murmured, "Worried me, that did. I can't afford to not be able to take care of myself."

"You'll be fine," Blair soothed. "But you do need to take better care of yourself. I'd like you to walk a bit more, too – fifteen, twenty minutes a day. It's good for your heart."

"Alright, Doc, you know best. I'll be over yonder to get that stuff for the tea in a little while. You want me to bring along some fresh bread and some of those biscuits the Sheriff likes so much?"

Grinning, he nodded. "Absolutely. Now that we're back, we'll need our usual standing order with you. Have to say, I've missed your bread. Best in the country."

Her smile once again lit her face. "Did the Sheriff find his brother? And is he okay?"

"Everything's fine," Blair replied, and gave her an abridged version of their journey. "Now, what's been happening here while we've been gone?" he asked as he sipped his coffee.

"Ah, well, big doin's, what with that Mr. Kincaid and his people moving in," she said with a tightening of her lips. "Like to run the town, he would. Thinks almighty well of himself, he does."

"Sounds like you don't like him?"

"Like him? No, he's not a likeable man. For all his easy smiles, there's a meanness in him." Her gaze dropped and she shook her head. "Him and his folks don't much care for anyone different from them … like Deputy Brown and … you."

"I know. I've heard a little bit about that already."

He saw anger in her eyes when she looked up at him. "I don't hold with folks like that. Too ignorant by half." She jerked her head toward the wall, and the apothecary beyond. "But some'll make friends with the Devil himself if they think they can make a dollar out of it." She reached out to pat his hand. "But, mark my words, they deserve one another. Damned fools."

Quirking a brow, a smile playing around his mouth, Blair was glad to see more of her usual feistiness emerging. "Some folks just don't know any better," he offered.

"An' some are just plain bad news," she retorted. A worried frown puckered her brow as she gazed at him. "You be careful, Doc. I mean that. People like Kincaid an' his bunch – they can't be trusted."

"Thanks for the warning, Maisie – and for your concern. I appreciate it and I'll take care," he assured her. "Good to know that there are some folks in this town who don't see the world the way these newcomers do."

She nodded, but her frown deepened. "There's lots who are scared, though. Scared to speak their mind, to stand up for what they know is right. I'm worried about this town, Doc. I'm worried that it's changin', an' not in a good way."

He didn't know what to say to that, or how to reassure her that things would work out fine. He wasn't at all sure they would. "Guess we just have to do what we've always done," he finally said quietly. "Look out for one another and do our best."

"I suppose," she agreed. "But I have to tell you, Doc, I don't want to live in a town that only knows how to hate."

Startled, he asked, "You're not thinking of leaving? Where would you go?"

"Oh, I'm not ready to pack my bags yet, so don't you worry about where you're gonna get your fresh bread," she replied with a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "But … well, I've got a sister back east, an' she's got a son whose gone out to some place called the Black Hills, in the Dakota Territory. He writes me now an' again, good lad. An' he says they could sure use a bake shop in a place called Deadwood, an' some good old-fashioned home cooking." She shrugged. "Never thought I'd be moving anywhere at my age, but," she gave him a wink, "might find me a husband if I went out there."

He laughed. "Maisie, you're a fine woman and I'd think any town would be the better for having you. And not just because you're such a wonderful cook. You've got a good heart. But I'd be sorry to see you go."

She blushed in confusion at his praise, but then she added, "I hear they could use some good doctors out that way, too. If the time comes to pack up, which I dearly hope it won't, but if it does … could be I won't be the only one ready to move on."

His laughter died and he sighed as he contemplated the astute and brave woman. "Could be you're right," he allowed. "But let's both hope it won't come to that."

He finished his coffee and scone, and paid her for their weekly order of bread and baked goods. "I'll see you later," he said over his shoulder as he headed back onto the boardwalk. As he closed the door, he saw a stranger come out of the Sheriff's Office and walk briskly away, toward the center of town. Behind him, from the open window, he heard her say, "That's Kincaid. Best you avoid him an' his lot, if you can."

He glanced at her and, with a small smile of gratitude for her support, tipped his hat in a salute to her. As he ambled along, he thought about who he'd visit next. The bank was just up ahead, but he had no excuse to drop in on Sam Sloan in the middle of the day. And he didn't feel like facing the sly contempt of the bank clerk, Clive Tucker. That man, and his wife, Urseline, had been a thorn in his side since the day he'd arrived in town, and he had little doubt that the Tuckers would have fallen quickly into Kincaid's camp. Moving on past, Blair decided, though, that he would like to check in with Sarah Sloan and Delores McCready, Silas' wife, the two women he'd trained to be midwives before he and Jim had ridden to meet with Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters. Man, that was only three or so months ago … and yet it felt like a lifetime.

Now that he had a destination in mind, he picked up his pace and soon felt sweat trickling on his brow and along his back. He cast a hopeful look at the sky, but it was still clear with nary a wisp of cloud. Giving the construction sites a wide berth, he eyed the skeletons of several buildings which would reach to two and three stories, and the burly men – all of them strangers – perspiring under the hot sun as they hammered lengths of wood together. He hoped they were drinking plenty of water, or they'd be sick with heat stroke before the day was over. Briefly, he considered stopping to offer the advice but, ashamed to know their numbers intimidated him and they'd not thank him for his concerns, he held his peace.

Once again embroiled in a maelstrom of emotion, his boots kicking up puffs of dust as he strode past the schoolyard, he continued on to the residences close by.

* * *

Hot as it was outside, inside the bank it was even worse, the air stifling and oppressive. Jim barely glanced at Clive Tucker who had his nose buried in a ledger, as he strode across the polished plank flooring to Sam's office. At least, the floor was supposed to glow with a fine, rich sheen, just as the broad front window was intended to be crystal clear – a tough feat to maintain in a dusty town where the main street became a swamp of mud when it rained. Dusty boot prints marred the floor's shine and the glass was opaque with grit. The vertical row of ornate metal bars behind the glass window were new, though, their brass trim still bright.

Chewing on his lip as he knocked on the open door, Jim wondered why Sam had decided the extra security was necessary – not that Jim didn't think the bars were a good idea. He'd never been fond of that damned window and had often wondered at the stupidity of thieves who never seemed to tumble to the idea that they only needed a sizeable rock to smash their way inside.

"Jim!" Sam exclaimed, standing with a broad smile and coming around the desk with his hand out in greeting. "You're back! I'm glad, very glad to see you."

Amused and a bit mystified by the unusually effusive greeting, Jim pulled off his hat and shook the banker's hand. He and Sam had always gotten along, but they'd never been friends.

"Sam," he acknowledged. "It's good to see you, too." Jerking a thumb back at the newly barred window, he asked with a small smile, "You expecting some trouble, or just come to your senses about security?"

Waving him to one of the comfortable chairs in front of the desk, Sam answered as he returned to his own, "A little of both, you might say." His mouth twisted and he shook his head. "I guess you've heard about the new settlers?"

"Yeah. Kincaid just left my office," Jim replied, giving nothing away as he closed the door and sat down. "What's your take on him and the people with him?"

Sam's gaze dropped and he rubbed his mouth. Jim wondered if he was going to hear something bland and unobjectionable – the bluff, heavy-set banker was well-schooled in tact and in keeping his views to himself. But Sam sighed and shrugged. "No point in hiding what I think, I guess. I'm all for Bitterwood Creek growing, you know that. But I'd just as soon these folks would'a kept on going. Kincaid strikes me as a man who has aspirations toward being a dictator – and he's got his own small army to enforce his word. And they're all a pack of high and mighty, self-righteous bigots that give Christianity a bad name. I've no use for any of them."

"Guess none of them has deposited any of their coin in your bank," Jim observed wryly, arching one brow at the caustic assessment.

"No, none of 'em has," Sam agreed with a rueful smile, but he sobered as he went on, "And none of them will, so long as some other folks leave their deposits here."

"Folks like Simon, Joel and Henri?" Jim surmised with grim certitude.

"That's right – and folks like Doc, too," Sam sighed. Leaning forward, his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped, he said heavily, "I'm worried, Jim. That's why I put those bars up, to tell you the truth. I don't think Kincaid and his gang would hesitate to steal what's in the vaults. In their view, Simon, Doc, and the rest don't have the right to have any money. He doesn't think of them as being human."

His gaze hooded to hide his furious disgust, Jim nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's the impression I got from the man, too. At least in terms of what he thinks, if not about any designs he might have on the bank." Turning his head toward the wall between them and the bank's main lobby, he asked, "What're the odds that Kincaid knows exactly what's in your vault?"

Sam bit his lip and drummed fingertips on his desk. "I'm sorry to say, I think there's a good chance of that. But, well, Clive's a fool but he's not completely stupid. Until Kincaid gets his own bank built, Clive needs his job here. I think – I hope – he'll be discreet at least until Kincaid offers him a new position." Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. "I can barely abide the man, but he's good with figures. Keeps a good accounting. Wouldn't be sorry to see the last of him, though, 'cept I'm not sure who I'd get to replace him." After a pause, he asked, "What did Kincaid want with you?"

Jim hesitated but decided there was no point in making a secret of the situation, at least not with those he was pretty sure he could trust. "Kincaid said I have two days to get rid of my current deputies and hire on his men."

"The man doesn't mince words, does he?" Sam rejoined, a scowl darkening his heat-flushed face. "Guess this means there's going to be trouble sooner rather than later."

"Well, maybe," Jim agreed. "But he also told me he plans on being the new mayor, so I don't think he wants to be too blatant about breaking the law."

Sam studied him, searched his eyes. "I wouldn't blame you a bit if you took off that badge right now and walked away. The town hired you to keep the peace, not stand against an army. Jim, Kincaid won't tolerate any opposition. In my case, he's building his own bank and no doubt hopes to ruin me. You?" He shook his head. "He'll resent your authority. Man, he'll have you killed."

"He'll probably try," Jim allowed, his gut tightening at Sam's evident certainty. Sloan was good at reading people and was rarely wrong about them. He had to be astute in his business, able to judge character and the measure of a man. Jim's last hope that Kincaid might've been bluffing crashed and burned. Licking his lips, he asked, "You think the town'll just stand back and let Kincaid run right over them?"

"Maybe not all," Sam reflected. "The new bunch holds their prayer meetings in their camp, in protest that Pastor Stevens won't shun the Browns. Miz Conner and Maisie won't give them the time of day. Dan Raymond has been writing editorials about the importance of toleration and respecting the equal rights of all. Silas told Kincaid straight out that he'd serve any man with the coin to pay and he didn't give no nevermind about what color that man might be. And Angus, well, he said pretty much the same thing – so Kincaid is also building a saloon and a general store." He paused and sighed. "The man doesn't care about raising the ire of shopkeepers, a few proud women, or even a man like Silas. He knows they aren't going to seriously fight back, any more than I can." He spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Jim, but you know the people in this town. None of us are gunmen. Kincaid's bunch would cut us to ribbons."

When Jim didn't say anything, just rubbed his chin and looked away, Sam went on, "Simon and Joel, and their riders – they'll back you, you know that. But, sure as the sun rises, that'll mean bloodshed." He thumped a fist on the desk in sudden anger, and stood to pace. "I hate this. I really despise what's happening here. We had a nice little town, with good folks. And now?" Taking a deep breath, he stopped and faced Jim. "I don't want to live in the kind of town Kincaid wants to build. I sure'n hell don't ever want to see that man become mayor. But … but I don't know how to stop them. And … I'm ashamed to say, men like him scare me."

"Be a fool not to be scared of a man like that," Jim said, low and even. "I don't have any answers, Sam. But I don't want to live in that kind of town, either. If we have any hope of stopping him, it's now, before he's fully entrenched. Maybe if we make it uncomfortable enough, he'll decide it's not worth settling here and move on."

"We?"

"Well, you're right that I can't stop him alone," Jim asserted aggressively, feeling as if his back was against the wall and not liking it. "Doc and Brown will back me up, sure, but they're not gunmen and I hate to put them at risk if … well, if the town's not going to back us. And, yeah, I know Simon and Joel will help – if they know the help is needed and when. But I'm betting Kincaid has the road between here and the Gold Ribbon watched. I'm not sure it'd be safe for anyone to ride out there to give them a heads-up. Hell, I don't even think it's safe for Doc to ride out to see any patients beyond the edge of town."

His gaze falling away, Sam returned to his chair. "You're asking that if push came to shove, would this town support you? You and Doc Sandburg and Brown?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking."

Sam wiped the sweat from his flushed face and Jim could see the small tremors in his hand as he fought with his fear. Swallowing heavily, Sam finally replied, "I guess I don't know. What happens if we don't?"

Jim gave him a bleak smile. "Then I guess you'll all be stuck with Garrett Kincaid."

"That mean you won't stick around to see how it all turns out?"

Jim wasn't sure what to say to that. It galled him to imagine pulling up stakes and leaving the town defenseless, but he didn't like the odds. Standing, he pulled on his hat. "I don't know, Sam. I'll have to think about it. I'm willing to take my chances against Kincaid, but I don't feel right putting Doc or Henri's lives on the line with me, not if we're on our own. Three against what? Forty, fifty men? Those are bad odds, Sam, and you know it. We wouldn't last a day, so what would be the point?"

"I'm sorry, of course, you're right," Sam admitted, seeming embarrassed to have needed to have it spelled out. His gaze skittered around the office, as if searching for something. "You said Kincaid gave you two days?" he asked, grasping for straws.

"That's what he said."

Sam inhaled deeply and was clearly struggling to find his own courage. "Okay, look, I'll ride out to the Gold Ribbon. Nobody'd think twice about that; hell, Kincaid would be hoping I was on my way to tell them to get their money out of my bank. As if that would ever happen – those two men have pretty much financed this town; backed all the loans whether folks know it or not for nigh on twenty-five years. So far as I'm concerned, so long as they're willing, I'll be their banker. Anyway, I'll let them know you need backup by the day after tomorrow. And … and I'll talk to Silas and Angus, and some of the others. Give me a chance to see what I can do to make the odds a little better."

Reaching for the doorknob, Jim nodded. "I'm happy to give you that chance. I like this town, like living in it. I just don't like the idea of dying – or worse, my friends dying – for a town that would rather bow to the likes of Kincaid than fight back. I appreciate your help, Sam … and your honesty. Good luck with the others." He hesitated, his gaze once again staring through the office wall. "Maybe wait until tomorrow to ride out. Wouldn't want anyone to make a connection between me being here and your visit out there."

Sam's jaw tightened at the reminder of the possible informer on his payroll, but he nodded with grim understanding.

* * *

Blair found Sarah Sloan watering her garden, trying to save her vegetables and flowers from the brutal heat. She greeted him with a broad smile, but he couldn't help but notice that she looked hot and tired. Pitching in, he hauled buckets of water from their well to fill her watering cans. Talking as they worked, he told her a little about their journey and was pleased to see her smile proudly when she told him she'd successfully helped deliver three babies while he'd been away.

* * *

Jim glanced at his pocket watch when he came out of the bank. Slipping it back into his jeans, he strode along the boardwalk into the heart of the town. As he passed the busy construction sites, he opened up his hearing and wasn't surprised to hear some of the men pointing him out, but he frowned when one rasped, "That's the Sheriff. Guess that means the Jew is back, too," and his companion muttered, "Bastard."

His gaze raked the site, but he couldn't tell which of the several strangers had been talking. Frowning, he carried on to the school, arriving just as the door opened and yelling kids make a break for the yard, evidently very glad to be released from class for a short break.

Mounting the steps, he went inside and found Marnie MacDonald cleaning off a blackboard.

"Miz MacDonald? Got a minute?" he called softly.

She jumped and whirled at the sound of his voice, her hand at her throat, and then she laughed nervously. "Oh, Sheriff Ellison, sorry, you scared me."

Frowning, realizing she'd been really frightened, he asked, "Why were you so scared?"

Flustered, she hesitated. "Oh, oh, it's nothing. Just silliness. There're just so many strangers in town and … well…"

"Has anyone been giving you a difficult time? Bothering you?" he demanded.

"N-no, not exactly," she demurred, waving off his concern. Pulling herself together, she asked, "What did you want to see me about?"

Not happy with her avoidance tactics, he drew off his hat as he studied her. "I think you might have an idea," he replied. "I'm worried about the Brown children. They miss coming to school."

"Oh," she gasped flushing, and her gaze dropped. She bit her lip and seemed close to tears as her hands fluttered nervously. "I feel awful about all that. It's just that … that Mr. Kincaid … and some of the new parents made such a fuss."

Jim nodded. "That why you jumped when I came in? You thought I was one of them?"

Sighing, looking miserable, she nodded. "They scare me," she whispered. "They said … I'm afraid they might hurt those children."

Looking away, Jim found himself wishing that Nellie Bascombe was still the schoolmarm, but the poor woman had been murdered the year before; she was sorely missed by the community. Nellie wouldn't have been so easy to scare. "Look, how about I bring the girls to school and then walk them home after?" he suggested. "Maybe if they see I'm interested, they'll back off." Then, knowing that children usually aped their parents' beliefs and attitudes, he asked uncertainly, "Would you be able to keep them safe from the other kids? Be willing to expel any that give the girls a hard time?"

She twisted her hands anxiously, but then took a deep breath. "I can handle the children," she replied, lifting her chin. "It's the parents who frightened me. So, yes, I'd be willing to try, if you're willing to escort the girls, to ensure their safety."

Pleased to see she had some gumption, Jim smiled at her approvingly. "Good girl," he praised. "I'll bring them tomorrow."

* * *

"Whew," Sarah sighed, fanning herself and discreetly stretching her back when they finished the watering not quite an hour later. "I'm grateful for the help, Doctor Sandburg." Shading her eyes, she scanned the sky. "Feels like rain should be coming, but I don't see any clouds."

"Not yet," he agreed but she was right. The heaviness of the humidity, the lack of wind, all presaged a storm sometime in the near future.

Peeling off her gardening gloves, she asked, "Have you seen Delores yet?"

"No. I planned to head over to her place next."

"Well, let's go call on her and see if she'll offer us a cup of tea," Sarah suggested with a conspiratorial grin. "I'm too hot to want to stoke up the fire in my own kitchen."

He laughed and agreed, and they ambled along behind the houses to the nearby McCready place where they found Delores hanging out washing on the line.

"Doc! You're back!" Delores called, sounding glad to see him. "Hey, Sarah – Lordy, it's hot. How 'bout a glass of lemonade, fresh made and still cold?"

Both Blair and Sarah eagerly agreed and they were soon all settled on the wide verandah that ran along the front of the house, the overhanging roof shading them from the merciless sun.

"Ah, that's good," Blair sighed after taking a long sip of the tart, refreshing drink. "So, how've you been keeping?"

"Well enough," Delores replied and then smiled shyly. "I helped birth two little girls while you were gone. Made me feel proud to help."

"Good for you!" he praised her, including Sarah in his glance. "Both of you. This town and the people who live 'round these parts are very lucky you ladies agreed to help out. I have to admit, I felt better leaving for a while, knowing the two of you would be looking after things. Between you and Milt Ambrose, sounds like I was hardly missed."

Their smiles tightened as they glanced at one another, then faded completely as they each set their glasses down. "Don't you believe it, Doc," Delores told him. "We managed, but it weren't the same. Folks are lucky that no one got bad sick while you were away, or had a terrible accident."

Sarah fussed with her skirt, avoiding his eyes as she asked, "Have you spoken to Mr. Ambrose since you've been back?"

"Yes, yes, I have," he admitted, guarding his tone as he looked from one to the other. "I know he's set himself up as a doctor, especially for the new settlers. And, I suppose, there'll be some in town who will continue to see him with their problems, even though I'm back."

"I think it's scandalous," Delores snapped. "You taught him everythin' he knows. An' that's well an' good, but the man doesn't know enough to be putting out his own shingle. Just plain ungrateful, greedy and arrogant, if you ask me. Folks who go to him when there's a _real_ doctor right across the street are just plain stupid."

"Well, from what I understand, the newcomers wouldn't be comfortable being treated by me," he replied, not meeting their eyes. "And make no mistake, he has a good deal more skill than some who call themselves physicians."

Sarah's open face clouded and she shook her head. "We're both real sorry about all this, Doc. These new people … they hold with strange ideas. I know Sam is bothered by their attitudes. Do you know that Kincaid is building his own bank, so he doesn't have to mix his money up with Simon's and Joel's? I know some folks from the South have problems understanding that black people aren't slaves anymore, but … Sam's afraid Kincaid is dangerous."

"Silas has no use for him," Delores sniffed. "Nor any of his lot. I won't have nothin' to do with those people."

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that," Blair replied, leaning toward them, his elbows on his thighs. "The whole point of knowing how to help other people is to help them. Some of those women might need the skills and knowledge you can offer them. Milt Ambrose, well, he hasn't learned any of what you two know. And they won't come to me."

"Are you saying you'd _want_ us to help them, even with the … the awful things they say about you, without even knowing you?" Sarah asked, sounding surprised.

He nodded. "Yeah, if you're agreeable to helping them. And if you think there might be complications, you can always come to me for advice. They wouldn't have to know about that."

Delores' eyes filled and she quickly swiped the tears away. "You're a good man, Doc Sandburg. A better man than the likes of them deserve to have carin' about them." She bit her lip and looked at Sarah, and then heaved a sigh. "Alright, I'll help them if they ask. But … it don' seem right."

"I'll help, too, but the chances of their men allowing the women to come to us aren't all that high," Sarah surmised with a frown. "That Kincaid doesn't seem to have much respect for womenfolk, and he's in contention with our husbands. I expect he'll tell them all to have nothing to do with us."

"Well," Blair sighed regretfully, "all we can do is let folks know we'll help. We can't force them to accept good care." He gave them a wan smile. "I'm glad not everyone in this town thinks like Kincaid does."

"I wish they'd never stopped here," Delores growled. "Silas agrees with Sam that they're likely to make trouble." She hesitated, then added in a rush, "You take care around them, Doc. Don't want nothin' to happen to you."

"Oh, don't worry about me," he assured them, though he was touched by the concern. "I've probably heard whatever they'd have to say to me before. Some folks just don't take to anyone who is different from them."

Sarah's lips tightened. "Maybe so, but that doesn't make them right. But Delores _is_ right, Doc. There's a viciousness about Kincaid. You shouldn't be riding out on your own. I don't think it's safe."

Despite the heat of the day, he felt a chill at her words and their obvious worry. Sitting back, he looked out over the road at the homes of all the people he'd come to know over the years, and listened to the heavy hammering from the other side of the schoolyard. "I … I won't refuse a call for help," he said, but then returned his gaze to their anxious eyes. "But I'll be careful, as careful as I can be."

"You make sure the Sheriff knows where you're goin'," Delores advised. "And, well, when you're makin' calls during the day out to farms or ranches, maybe me or Sarah could ride out with you. Maybe they'd think twice about hasslin' you with a witness sittin' right there."

Startled by the offer, he held up his hands. "Oh, no," he protested. "No. If you really think it could be dangerous, I'm not going to drag either of you into what could be trouble. But … I thank you for the offer, Missus McCready. It's brave and generous … and very kind."

"Nothin' kind about it; just lookin' out for our own interest, is what it is," she replied, blushing at his words. "Like I said before, we don't want nothin' bad happenin' to you, Doc. Don't know what this town would do without you, and that's the God's own truth."

Looking at her plain, earnest face, he felt ashamed of his thoughts of the night before and that morning. Jim had been absolutely right. He had a lot of friends in this town, people who cared about him, regardless of his heritage. "You're a good woman, Delores," he murmured, his voice husky and thick with emotion, "both of you are. And I'm very grateful for your concern and your support." He cleared his throat and, wanting to ease the worry in their eyes, he assured them, "I'll take your warnings seriously, and I really will be careful. But … but, in my experience, there's rarely any real danger. Just, just nasty words and a … a kind of shunning. Please, I don't want you to be worried about me."

"It's too bad," Sarah sighed, "that some people are just so ignorant and hateful. You don't deserve that Doc, and we're sorry you have to put up with it. It's not right."

"No, but it's life," Blair replied with a wry smile. "Maybe, in time, they'll learn to see things differently. I hope so, anyway."

He took his leave a few minutes later, and walked back through the town, stopping now and then to chat with several men and women who welcomed him back warmly. But he couldn't help but notice that there were others that he knew who turned away when they saw him. Trying not to let the shunning bother him, he kept his chin up and his stance loose as he walked past the new construction.

For a moment, he was so preoccupied that he didn't notice who was passing, until Pastor Stevens caught his arm and boomed, "Why, Doc Sandburg! My word, son, it's wonderful see you back in town, doing your rounds!"

"Pastor Stevens," he replied with a broad smile. "I'm sorry, my mind was a million miles away. How are you, sir?"

"I'm fine, Doc, just fine," Stevens replied, his voice still pitched to carry.

Belatedly, Blair realized they were right smack in front of the busiest building project, and they were starting to attract attention – and then he understood what the preacher was doing. He flushed and his smile wavered as he said quietly, "Pastor, you don't have to do this."

"Ah, but yes, Doc, I most certainly do," the Reverend said with warm emphasis, no longer shouting his lungs out. "You're one of the best men I've ever known, and I'll not have ignoramuses like these brutes dictate whom I will respect and whom I will ignore. But I am sorry, Doc, if I've made you uncomfortable."

Blair's throat was thick as he shook his head. "No, sir, not at all. You've only ever made me feel … welcome and valued. Thank you for that. But, uh, I worry about you, about reprisals."

"You let me and God worry about that; you just take good care of yourself, and don't let these dunderheads get you down."

Blair took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll do my best not to let them get to me."

"Good!" the Pastor bellowed heartily and embraced him. "God bless you, son, and keep you safe!"

Blair couldn't help the chuckle that built in his chest at the show the good man was putting on, but he swallowed his laughter, lest the preacher misunderstand. Patting the older man's back, he murmured, his voice hoarse, "You're a real class act, Pastor. One of a kind. God be with you, too, and may He bless all your days with peace."

"Don't know as I've ever had a finer blessing," Stevens said, pulling away to grin down at him. "Give my warm regards to the Sheriff, would you? I'm glad you're both home, safe and sound."

"I will, for sure," Blair assured him.

When they parted to go about their business, Blair was aware of the silence from across the street, all hammering and sawing having come to a halt. He swallowed his trepidation and forced himself to turn slightly toward all the strangers staring darkly at him, and tipped his hat to them in a casual salute, as he walked along the boardwalk, back toward home. _Well, if they didn't know who I was before, they sure know now,_ he thought with an inner sigh, and remembered Delores' and Sarah's words of caution to him.

Life sure had gotten complicated, all of a sudden.

He stopped at the general store to purchase supplies for the house. Angus MacDonald was as taciturn as ever, but Blair didn't take it personally; that was just Angus' way. While the storekeeper pulled cans of beans, chili, salt pork and corned beef from the shelf to fill his order, Blair chose a small variety of fresh vegetables from the bins – ears of corn, potatoes, carrots, cabbage and a small turnip, pea pods – and he gathered up a couple tomatoes and a few of the lemons that must've come in on a recent stage. Taking his armload to the counter, he asked, "How's your back, Angus? Any more problems?"

"Nah, those exercises you gave me work real good, Doc," MacDonald replied, and unbent enough to give him a crooked smile. "Guess you've seen all the new buildin' goin on," he added, his tone once again sour.

"Yeah, I did. Lot of new people moving into the area," Blair replied.

Angus snorted and wiped the sweat from his brow with a broad, checkered handkerchief. "Guess I'm gonna have some competition soon."

Blair smiled. "Well, if we're doubling the size of the population, or just about, I guess it's natural that more stores and services will be offered." He paused and then added, "Gonna be another doctor in town, too. Milt Ambrose is takin' on the care of the new folks."

Rolling his eyes as he loaded Blair's supplies into a box, Angus muttered, "Milt Ambrose is a fool. An' the folks who trust him for their doctorin' are bigger fools."

"I'm sure he'll do his best," Blair offered with as much conviction as he could muster, as he pulled out his money pouch.

But, to his surprise, Angus waved off his money. "Forget it," the man said gruffly. "Put it against what I'll owe you, the next time I need some doctorin'."

Gaping at him, never having known the careful, if not exactly parsimonious, Scot to give away supplies before, Blair exclaimed, "But, Angus, you're one of the healthiest people in Bitterwood Creek! You don't have to –"

"I know I don't," MacDonald cut in. Pushing the box toward Blair, he insisted impatiently, "If'n it makes you feel better, consider it a way of sayin' I'm glad you an' the Sheriff're back. Besides, you never did take anything for those exercises you gave me, an' they really do work real well, an' I'm grateful."

"Okay, Angus," Blair agreed with a broad smile as he hefted the box. "I really appreciate it, thanks. And I know Jim will, too."

* * *

On his way back through town, Jim stopped at the newspaper office. Dan Raymond looked up from his desk, where he was writing on a pad of paper, and smiled at the sight of him. "Thank goodness, you're back," he said, standing to shake Jim's hand.

Quirking a brow, Jim grinned wryly, "Sounds like you missed me."

Waving him to a chair, Dan turned to the pot of coffee he kept going on a small stove in the corner behind his desk. He filled two cups and, after handing one to Jim, sat down. "You met Kincaid yet?"

"This morning," Jim replied as he blew over the hot liquid.

"I did some digging, to see if I could find out more about him," Dan said with a frown. "There wasn't much. He was a colonel in the rebel army. Guess he was the younger son of a cotton plantation owner, and after the war ended, there wasn't much left of the family's wealth." He sighed and shook his head. "Guess a lot of people were displaced. Anyway, seems he tried to make a go of it for a year or two and finally gave up. Those people he brought with him? Most of 'em were men under his command, and their families. They're an angry, bitter bunch. Seem to feel the world owes them a favor."

"Sam said you've been runnin' some pointed editorials," Jim observed.

Nodding, Dan set his mug down. "Got some reaction," he reported. "Someone threw a rock through the front window after the first one. Got a few scrawled threats after another one – you know, the usual, 'Gon ta burn yer place down,' and 'Don need no nigger-lovers round here.'" He snorted. "Ignorant jackasses."

"Guess there's no way of knowing exactly who's sending the messages?"

"No, 'fraid not. Wouldn't be Kincaid, himself, though; he's an educated man and too proud to mangle his spelling."

"Happens again, you let me know," Jim directed, and swallowed the last of the strong coffee. "Meanwhile, next time I see Kincaid, I'll tell him to keep his people in line."

"He won't take that well," Dan warned.

"Don't care," Jim grated as he stood. "Seems Mr. Kincaid and I are bound to clash. I've already warned him to watch his step."

Dan laughed. "See. Now you know why I'm glad you're back. Not that I blame Brown for folding, all things considered – but it was downright unnerving to see how fast Kincaid had one of his men wearin' a star."

"He's not wearing it now," Jim advised him.

Sobering Dan warned, "Watch your back, Jim. When I did my research, I heard some nasty stories about people getting ambushed in places where Kincaid and his party were passing through. Nothing was ever proved … but I don't really believe in that many coincidences."

Sighing, Jim shook his head. "Neither do I, Dan. Thanks for the coffee – and the background information." About to leave, he hesitated and looked back. "If things go off the rails, there's too many of them to stop on my own."

"I know," Dan agreed solemnly. "I've been worrying about that. Jim … nobody expects you to even try to face them down alone; nobody sensible, anyway. Guess most of us are afraid you'll pack it in as a bad deal. We just don't know what we'll do if that happens."

"Well, I'm not gone yet," Jim told him. "Guess we'll see how it plays out over the next little while." With a half-grin, he added, "According to Kincaid, he's gonna be mayor by Fall an' he made it plain I'd be looking for another job as soon as he is." Turning toward the door, he drawled over his shoulder, "I'm hopin' he'll wait to fire me, rather than have somebody shoot me in the back."

Before returning to his office, he stopped in at the Telegraph and Land Registry Office.

"Hey, Johnny," he greeted young Winston as he came through the door. "Any good news today?"

"Sheriff, hey, heard you and the Doc were back," Johnny replied. "That's today's good news." Glancing at the telegraph key, he shrugged and grinned. "Just about the only news."

Leaning his elbow on the high counter between him and the clerk, Jim tipped back his hat and asked, "I was wondering about the new settlers in town. They file the proper land claims yet?"

"Not yet," Johnny replied, shaking his head. "I asked that Mr. Kincaid about it, an' he tol' me they're homesteading. Providing they put up their buildings and improve the land before winter, they got a right."

"Uh huh," Jim grunted. "Well, there's lots of open land, that's for sure," he sighed. "Just hope they know enough not to crowd in too close to folks who already have a claim."

"They're camped almighty close to the Gold Ribbon land," Johnny told him, quirking a brow to indicate he knew that could be trouble.

"Wonderful," Jim muttered. Silently cursing Kincaid, he rapped his knuckles on the counter, then gave the boy a tight nod and turned back to the door. "Thanks, Johnny. That's good to know."

* * *

When Blair got home, he ruthlessly shut down his thoughts as he put the supplies away and, despite the heat, stoked up the stove and put water on to simmer. He needed to do something active and mindless, so he chopped up the vegetables, added a can of corned beef, and covered the pot. After putting the kettle on to boil, to make a big pot of tea that he'd let cool and chill in cold water from the well, he sat down at the table and leaned his head back against the wall – and could no longer keep his thoughts and emotions at bay.

He couldn't decide how he felt because he felt so much, all of it mixed up and churning in his gut. His mind told him that, if he was smart, he'd pack up his stuff and take the next stage out of town. He'd seen the hate play out before and, though he'd said that morning that he'd only ever had words tossed at him, over the course of his life, he'd suffered the blows of far more than just nasty vocabulary. In a schoolyard, years and years ago, some kids had even thrown rocks, while others had jeered curses. Still, when all was said and done, the words had left the most lasting scars. For a very long time afterward, for years after the bruises had healed, he'd felt a sick sinking in his chest whenever he thought about those curses. Wondered if he was somehow marked, afraid that his life would be … too terrible to imagine.

And, man, for a lot of years, he'd thought those curses were all coming true, haunting him all the days of his life. Even when he'd thought he'd finally beaten them, when he'd graduated with his medical degree, and was engaged to a beautiful woman, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that it was all too good to be true.

And it had been too good. Hadn't been true. He'd thought he'd lost everything, and had very nearly lost even his life in the war. Feeling sick inside, he'd been sure those curses were following him down through time.

He'd been born a Jew. He couldn't change that fact. In ways that he didn't fully understand, he wouldn't even if he could. It was who he was, what had shaped him, inherent to his character. Not so much because Naomi had raised him in any traditional sense as a practicing Jew, but because others defined him by his heritage, made judgments about him, scorned and reviled him – and he'd had to learn to go on, to not let the futility and rage at the injustice consume him. But no matter how well he managed to struggle on, to do the best he could do, he'd come to doubt that anything in the world around him would ever change, that it would ever get better – that he'd ever find a place he could really settle and put down roots, secure in his life and world, accepted by the people around him. Oh, he supposed he might have settled in one of the Jewish quarters in one of the larger cities, not that he was accepted a whole lot better by the Jews themselves, when he was so untutored in their beliefs and customs. But he hated the cities, felt trapped in them and couldn't countenance living all his life hemmed in by the walls, the stench, and the noise.

So he'd wandered … until he'd come to Bitterwood Creek.

Closing his eyes, he massaged his temples, trying to ease the deep, pulsing ache inside. He'd thought he might have found a place, his place, finally. He'd begun to think he'd beaten the curses after all. That he'd outlasted them. And … and, God, Jim was everything. For all the hardships and dangers they'd suffered in the past two years and a bit, he wouldn't trade a moment of it, not a moment.

But … what now? Oh, not that he didn't believe Jim, and what he'd said. He held onto that as an anchor in the tempest. Only … only the curses had found him again. And he didn't know what to do. Deep down, he was scared, but not only for himself this time. This time, if he stayed, if he didn't run in the face of clear threat, the risks weren't only his to bear. Nor was the threat only to him. Good friends stood on the edge of the same abyss: Simon and Joel, Henri and Hannah and their sweet kids … even maybe Megan and Maisie, given Kincaid's apparent attitudes toward women. They could all lose everything.

And not just them – which was the realization that both chilled him to his soul and warmed him at the same time. Jim would be on that line with him. And he'd found out this morning that there were others in this town willing to stand on that line, too. God, he couldn't bear it if something bad happened to any of them because of him, because they cared about him, and because they were brave, and noble.

How could he let any of them risk sacrificing themselves?

How could he not?

How could he run now when so many were showing him they believed in him and wanted him to … to stay? When they told him they needed him, what he had to offer – and he knew that was the truth? He was a good doctor. He was … good at healing, at relieving suffering.

In the past, he'd only had himself to consider. He could pick up and go before the dangers got too great.

Now he had a friend he'd die for, other friends who counted on him … a whole town full of people who needed him, and a goodly number truly wanted him to stay.

He didn't know what to do.

The kettle whistled, startling him out of his thoughts and, as he poured the steaming water onto the tea leaves, he heard the front door open and close. Maisie shouted his name and he called to her to come on into the kitchen. A moment later, she bustled in with two fresh loaves of bread and what looked like a dozen cloud-light biscuits bundled in cheesecloth. Her face was still flushed beet-red from the heat and hurrying, and perspiration dampened her brow.

Settling her in a chair, not taking 'no' for an answer, Blair insisted she stay long enough for a cup of tea. Once he'd poured her a cup and she was blowing on it, he hurried to his office to get a stool for her to rest her swollen feet on. When he took her pulse, she blustered and tried to wave him off, but he could tell she was pleased by his concern for her health and small comforts. While she sipped on her tea, he went to his little dispensary to gather small pouches of medicines for her.

Returning to the kitchen, he dropped to one knee beside her and explained what to do with the medicines as he handed her each individual pouch. "You understand?" he asked, believing her when she nodded solemnly. Maisie was an astute woman and she knew to be careful with what he gave her. "Good. Now, I don't want you drinking any coffee until I tell you it's okay. And I'm serious about you getting out of that shop to walk for fifteen minutes or so at least once a day – a good brisk walk. In this heat, best if you do that first thing in the morning, while it's still cool. More vegetables and fruit, no bread for a while, and light meat, like chicken or fish that's easy to digest. And keep your feet up as much as you can! I know it's hard, when you're working all the livelong day – but you have to take some breaks, Maisie. You have to take care of yourself."

She gazed at him, a tiny smile curving her lips despite the gravity in her eyes as she listened to his instructions, nodding to show she understood and would do her best. When he stopped, she reached out to pat his hand. "You're a comfort, Doc," she told him. "And a blessing in my life. Right from the first, when you ran out on that street to save me from that bank robber, you been lookin' out for me. Nobody's done that, you know? Looked out for me? Not since my George died, nearly twenty years ago."

He felt love well in his heart for her and he smiled as he took her pudgy hand in both of his. "Well, I have to look out for the best cook in town – where would I get my bread if anything happened to you?"

"Ah, pshaw," she laughed merrily and winked at him. "Too bad you're too young for me, Doc, or I'd set my cap for you. Seein' as I've already conquered your stomach an' all."

He chuckled then, too, thinking she was a good tonic for his tormented soul. Standing, he assessed her color and was pleased the flush had abated. Her breathing was even, no longer forced. He wished the swelling in her ankles could be so easily and swiftly alleviated. She set her empty cup down and thanked him for the tea and the medicine. She hesitated and seemed suddenly flustered. "I'm sorry," she said, her glance falling away, "I ain't got the money to pay, not right now, anyway. But you tell me what I owe you," she went on, now determinedly meeting his eyes, "an' I _will_ pay you."

"Ah, Maisie," he sighed fondly as he shook his head and helped her to her feet, bending quickly to kiss her cheek, again making her complexion redden endearingly. "You don't owe me a thing. In all the time I've known you, you've never once allowed me to pay for a single loaf of bread without giving me twice what I've paid for. I owe you, my girl, more than I'll ever be able to pay, and not only for the bread. But if you insist on compensating me, because you're a stubborn, willful and exceedingly independent woman, then – you take care of yourself. That would be the best payment in the world."

Her eyes glistened and her head bobbed. "Okay, Doc. You got it. I'll be good," she promised.

"I'll hold you to that," he warned with a waggle of his finger at her, then grinned as he walked with her down the hall. "Thanks for the bread and biscuits. Jim's gonna be very pleased to find them when he comes home for lunch."

"Give him my best," she said, as she stepped out into the heat of the day.

"I will," he assured her, and stood in the doorway to watch until she'd crossed the street and was safely inside her bakery.

Closing the door, smiling ruefully, he leaned his back against it. Where would he ever find another Maisie? He couldn't do it – couldn't go. He couldn't run. Not yet, anyway. Not until there was no other choice – and maybe … maybe, it wouldn't come to that this time.

Maybe.

* * *

When Jim came in for lunch, he looked drawn and seemed disinclined to say much as he took off his hat and settled at the table. "Smells good," he offered, evidently trying to be sociable despite his obvious distraction.

Blair ladled up bowls of the stew and set them with a basket of Maisie's fresh rolls and a small slab of butter on the worn pine surface, then poured two big mugs of tea from the pitcher he'd chilled in a bucket of well water. Sitting down across from Jim, who was already digging into his meal, he studied his friend, and his brows furrowed in concern.

"Looks like it's not a great birthday so far," he observed.

"Huh? Oh, well, it started off great," Jim replied, doing his best to conjure a smile.

Blair grimaced and arched a brow. "I saw Kincaid leaving your office this morning."

"Oh, you did, huh?" Jim muttered, flicking him a look and shrugging a shoulder.

"C'mon, out with it."

Jim's gaze dropped and he sighed as he stirred the spoon in his bowl. "The man's everything H said, and more. Ruthless, arrogant, hostile … but not stupid. Dangerous."

"Uh huh, and …? I'll bet he wasn't happy about you turfing whathisname, McBride."

"No, no, he wasn't," Jim agreed somberly. Pushing his nearly empty bowl away, he sat back and met Blair's eyes. "He's given me two days to fall into line or else. The bigoted ass makes no bones about his prejudices, and he plans on being mayor by the fall – said he'll fire me, if I'm still around by then."

"Shit," Blair gusted, pushing away his own untouched bowl.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "I talked to Sam, and he's going to ride out tomorrow to let Simon and Joel know I need some help. And he's going to talk to some others in town; about them taking a stand, too, if … well, if that becomes necessary. He's scared, though. They all are. But Dan, Angus, Silas and even Pastor Stevens are trying to hold the line, as best they can."

"I heard pretty much the same sort of thing this morning from Maisie, Delores and Sarah," Blair sighed. He hesitated and then added, "They, uh, went out of their way to tell me to be careful."

"They're absolutely right, Chief. I don't want you riding out of town on your own – I'll get Simon to loan us one of his hands to ride escort if you have to make any calls to the farms or small ranchers in the area."

Blair wanted to object, but he knew Jim was right. So he nodded, grudgingly, disgusted to think he needed a baby-sitter. Besides, it didn't sit right to think he might be putting anyone else's life in danger. Giving Jim a wry smile, he recounted his meeting with Pastor Stevens that morning. "Like you said, he's sure making it clear where he's drawn the line in the sand. He'll be lucky if they don't burn his church to the ground."

"Dan Raymond has received threats because of the editorials he's been writing."

"Man, this stinks!" Blair exclaimed, his anger slipping its leash. "We had a nice little town here. And now?" He threw up his hands and got up to pace. "Now, because of what I am, and what the Browns and Simon and Joel are, hell, we could have a war here. People could die – _you_ could die."

"Whoa, hold on a minute there, Chief!" Jim exclaimed, coming to his feet and gripping Blair by the arms to hold him in place. "This isn't about what you are, or the others. It's about blind, vicious prejudice, about people too arrogant and self-righteous and angry with the world to give room to anyone who isn't like them, who doesn't measure up to their sick demands."

"Yeah?" Blair challenged, pulling away. "You sure about that? Because if we weren't here, there wouldn't be any problem. Wouldn't be threats and … God. I hate this."

"Sure there'd be problems, because a man like Kincaid doesn't stop until he's in charge, until he controls people by intimidating them, forcing them to his will. If it wasn't you, it'd be Megan, or Maisie, women doing unwomanly things by having the courage to take care of themselves," Jim argued. "Or it'd be Pastor Stevens, for not preaching exactly what he wanted to hear. Or Sam, for granting loans to people he didn't like, or not granting them to people he did."

Blair stared at him, and he felt his anger die. "What am I doing?" he muttered, and raked his hair off his face. "Man, I don't want to fight with you. You're sure'n hell not the enemy here." Despair threatened, and he bit his lip to hold the emotion back. "I don't know how to fight something like this. I … I've never tried. Just moved on, started over."

"That's not exactly true," Jim corrected, his tone firm. "I've seen you face down the prejudice that existed in this town long before Kincaid and his bunch showed up. You've fought this all your life, with dignity and the determination to keep going, to never give up."

"I'm not sure that's true, Jim," Blair replied, uncertainly. "It's like, like there're tolerable limits – a kind of balance between the bullshit and the rest of what's happening, that makes it, I don't know, not acceptable – not at all – but I can ignore it. But, but when it gets this bad – when it's pretty damned clear that there's no percentage in staying – I've moved on. Every time, I've moved on."

"So, what are you saying? You want to pack up and go? Okay. Then we'll go."

Giving him a rueful look, Blair shook his head. "No, that's not what I'm saying – though I can't deny I've thought about it. But when I walked around town this morning, talked to people, listened to what they had to say – I know, I _know_ I still have a place here, with some of them, anyway. And Milt Ambrose sure won't be of much help to any of them if another bad illness hits. And, well…" he went on, moving to stand close to Jim, looking up at him with a bemused smile, "and this time, I'm not facing it all alone. This time, I've got you."

"You got that right," Jim replied staunchly, drawing him into a close embrace. "Whether we go or stay, you're stuck with me, pal."

Lifting his arms to return the hug, Blair murmured, "I just … I just don't want you dyin' for me, man. I don't want you dying for this town."

Jim sighed. "I know." Drawing away, he admitted, "I told Sam that I couldn't do this alone … and that I wouldn't stand up for a town that wasn't prepared to stand up for itself. But … but I don't think I can just abandon them. I just …"

"I know; this is your tribe and you're their sentinel," Blair said with a steady gaze. "I think it would kill something inside of you to leave them to Kincaid's doubtful mercies."

Jim looked away, and nodded slowly. Silence fell between them, and then he said very quietly, "After Kincaid's deadline passes, I don't think you should –"

"Don't say it," Blair warned.

"Chief, you're not a gunman. I don't want you caught in a firefight!"

"I'm your partner," he said, steel in his voice. There wasn't much he was sure of, but he was damned sure that he wasn't going to watch Jim walk out to face unknown and untold danger without being with him, to watch his back and to help him with his senses. "This isn't up for discussion, Jim." When Jim began to look belligerent, he lightened his tone. "Hey, come on, we faced Geronimo and his whole tribe, right? Compared to that, Kincaid's nothing. Huh? He hasn't got a chance."

Jim snorted, and then chuckled. "Okay," he capitulated. "I kinda thought this wasn't going to be a fight I could win."

"No, not ever; waste of time and aggravation – very wise move to just give up. Better you should save your energy for the bad guys," Blair teased.

"But you do what I tell you, you hear? When I say, 'Duck', you duck."

"I hear you and, hey, that works for me."

"Well, I guess we've got two days' grace," Jim sighed, turning away to pick up his hat and put it on. "Might as well make the most of it. I'll be back early so we can clean up for dinner with Connor."

"Two days grace or not, you be damned careful," Blair cautioned.

"Don't worry, Chief," Jim grinned. "They don't know I can hear and see them coming long before they can see me. Gives me an edge."

"Yeah, well, just don't get cocky," Blair retorted, his tone wryly indulgent.

"Me? Cocky? Never." Jim laughed, and gave him a wink as he headed out the door.

Pensively, Blair rubbed his mouth as he watched Jim stride past the window on his way back to his office. Despite Jim's easy assurances, he wondered if he should be providing backup during the day as well as at night. They'd started their routine when trouble most often occurred after dark, usually because of unruly drifters or poor losers who lost their judgment after a few too many drinks. But this … this was different. For the first time, trouble wasn't just passing through. Now, the threat was coming from people who lived around them – people Jim was ostensibly hired to protect. It was unsettling to know that one's neighbors, the people they might pass on the street every day, might turn around and shoot you in the back. Despite the heat of the day, Blair shivered.

* * *

Jim hadn't said anything to Blair about his conversation with Marnie at the school. Depending on how Henri responded, there might not be anything _to_ say.

Stepping down from the boardwalk, he strode across the wide dusty street to the livery stable and smithy. Inside, the fire in the forge casting flickering shadows in the dim interior, he found Brown industriously hammering on a rough square of thin, hot iron. Sweat was pouring off the big man and, from the expression on his face, Jim surmised that Henri was imagining pounding something or someone other than that shovel he was making.

"Hey, H," he called, "you got a minute?"

Brown looked up and, submerging the hot metal in a bucket of water, creating a loud hissing and a cloud of steam, he nodded. Swiping a cloth over his face, he stepped away from the fire. "Sure, Jim," he replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Maybe it's what I can do for you," Jim began. "Look, I don't want to interfere, so if I've overstepped the line, just say so. But I spoke to Marnie this morning and she assures me that she can guarantee the safety of your girls at the school. I told her I'd walk them there every morning and bring them home in the afternoon, to make sure they don't get hassled on the way."

Brown blinked and gaped at him, and then he turned his face away. "I … I don't know what to say," he muttered. "You must think I'm pretty useless when I can't ensure the safety of my own kids on their way to and from school. But…"

"Whoa, hold on, that's not what I meant at all," Jim quickly intervened. "I understand the issues here, and that you don't want to inflame the situation by walking past that construction gang twice a day. And I can imagine you wouldn't want your girls to hear the stuff those bastards would be shouting." Jim sighed. "I just thought that if I walked them there and back, well, they won't shout that crap at me. And it makes a kind of statement, I guess. That their education is worth the Sheriff's time, because they matter, Henri. Your little girls shouldn't have to suffer because these strangers are damned fools."

"They miss school; miss playin' with their friends," Henri replied, his gaze still averted. "They don't really understand why they can't go; at that age, kids don't think about color unless someone makes a point of rubbing their faces in it." He looked at Jim. "I never wanted my kids to grow up feelin' second best. Like they got no rights. I want them to be able to read, write and figure sums. I want them to grow up feeling just as good as the white kids around them."

"I know, H," Jim murmured, and reached out to grip his friend's shoulder. "They _are_ just as good. Hell, from what I've seen of some of the little monsters in this town, your girls are better than 'just as good'. I'd like to help you. It's important to me, too, that they be allowed to go to school."

A weary smile creased Brown's face as he lifted his gaze to meet Jim's eyes. "I'd be grateful if you did this; if you made it alright – and _safe_ – for them to go back. An' Hannah'd be grateful, too." His grin widened. "As for the girls, well, they'll feel mighty special being escorted to school and back by the Sheriff. They love you, Jim – and they'd enjoy spending that time with you every day." He hesitated, and a frown puckered his brow. "But do you have the time? What if somethin' else is going down right then?"

Jim thought about Kincaid's threat that morning. "I think there's a good possibility that all this is going to blow up later on this week," he admitted. "Kincaid came to see me this morning. Said if I didn't reinstate his choice for deputy and fire those I have before the day after tomorrow…" Jim shrugged. "Well, he didn't exactly make a direct threat, but I expect he'll come after me – us. But trouble usually happens after dark, when there're fewer chances of a witness seeing anything. Things are normally pretty quiet during the day. I don't expect any problems with being available to walk them there and back."

When Brown appeared to be thinking it over, Jim added, "You need to think about whether you want to keep backing me up, H. Believe me, I understand if the risks are too great. You've got a family to worry about. Sam's going to get word to Simon tomorrow that I'll probably be needing some help – you, me and Blair aren't enough to face down Kincaid's whole mob if things start to bust loose."

"Why're you and Blair stickin' around?" Henri asked. "Why don't you just wash your hands of the whole sorry mess and move on?"

"We got friends in this town, good friends, an' we both got a job to do. But I am worried about Sandburg heading out of town alone, if he gets word that he's needed." Looking away, Jim shook his head. "I don't know; maybe we'll change our minds about staying. For now, we're just taking it a day at a time."

"Guess that's all any of us can do," Brown replied soberly. "Okay, a day at a time – let's see how it goes. So, yeah, I'd be grateful if you would make sure my girls can go back to school. Thanks, Jim."

Jim smiled and slapped his shoulder. "Good. I'll be over tomorrow morning at eight-fifteen to collect them."

Brown looked around the smithy. "Tell you what," he offered, "if Doc gets a call and he has to go, I'll ride shotgun. There's nothin' here can't wait; nothin' as important as maybe someone's life, whether his or the people he's goin' to help."

Jim hadn't thought of that option; would never have asked Brown to put himself in such potential danger. But he remembered Henri riding out with him the year before, when old enemies had ambushed Blair, and had helped save his life – both of their lives. There was no one he'd trust more to watch over Blair's welfare if he had to leave town to tend to a patient. His throat tightened and, for a moment, he could only nod. Taking a breath, he rasped, "Thanks, H. I appreciate that, and so will he." Smiling then, he tugged at the brim of his hat. "And you just proved my point about the kind of friends we've got here. Friends that make it worth stayin'."

* * *

Blair cleaned up after their lunch and then spent two hours in his office, updating the journal he kept on Jim and his senses. There was a lot to write; he hadn't had time to make any entries since they'd left months before to visit the reservation. For a while, he was able to forget the tensions, the threats, and the worries he harbored and simply lose himself in the magic of what they'd learned from Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters. Absorbed in his memories, he was even able to ignore the stifling heat of the day.

But when droplets of the perspiration from his face began to hit the paper and smear the ink, he stopped and stretched. Locking the journal away in his cabinet, he decided it was time to begin heating the water for their baths and he smiled at the idea of washing all the trail dust from his body and hair.

He hadn't discovered the house's hidden luxury on his first ramble through the place, thinking the door off the kitchen only led to another pantry or cupboard. When he did find it, nearly two weeks after he'd arrived and the epidemic was loosening its hold on the town, he'd grinned in delight. The little room was barely big enough to accommodate the enormous, porcelain tub; wooden rails and metal hooks were attached to the wall to hold towels and clothing, and there was a small shelf holding a lantern. The tub, sitting solidly on clawed feet, was long, high and wide – and, best of all, the drain ran through a pipe that carried the water away under the house, so it didn't have to be emptied. But it took a _lot_ of water to fill that massive bathtub.

For the next hour, he trudged between the well and the kitchen, hauling buckets of icy water to heat on the stove, and pouring the steaming water into the tub, gradually filling it. The heat of the day helped keep the water warm, unlike winter when he made do with less water because by the time he'd gotten the thing half-full, the water was cooling too fast and chilled him to the bone. But on a day like today, slightly tepid water would only help to cool them off. Struck by that thought, Blair wandered into his small dispensary and took down a big bottle of alcohol. A few cupfuls of this would insure their skin cooled even further in the air.

Standing there, looking at his supplies and instruments, he tried not worry about the fact that, other than Maisie stopping by, no patients had come in or sent for him all day. He told himself it didn't necessarily mean anything. His work was like that; either he was rushed off his feet, unable to even find time to rest properly, or there were times of a kind of stillness when people stayed healthy and accidents didn't happen. Having two midwives now also helped reduce his workload and, well, Milt would be the one called upon if there were any accidents on the building sites.

The air in the tiny workspace was heavy, and so hot that he felt claustrophobic. Beads of perspiration ran down his face; his cotton shirt was sopping from sweat from hauling water and working close to the blistering heat of the stove. Deciding the probability was that no patients would be showing up that day, he peeled off his shirt and carried it and the bottle of alcohol into the kitchen. He had filled every pot they had with water, to heat as much as possible at one time. Seeing that they were again close to boiling, steam roiling up to fill the room and cling to the windowpanes, he began emptying them into the tub. The water level was rising to nearly the midway point. One more batch of full pots should do it. While those last pots of water heated, he tossed thyme and rosemary into the water in the tub, and smiled as the rich scents filled the air, knowing Jim would be pleased with the heady, pungent herbal bouquet.

* * *

When Jim returned home that afternoon, he could feel the humid hot air rolling out in waves from the kitchen. He slid his Stetson onto a hook by the door and, wiping the back of his wrist across his brow, he headed across the hall into the kitchen, where the heat from the stove was so intense it felt like walking into an inferno. Blair didn't seem to have heard him, and was facing the stove, lifting a heavy pot of roiling water off the red-hot cast-iron surface. Naked from the waist up, his hair curling damply in the steam, his skin was glistening with sweat. The muscles of Blair's back stretched and tightened under the skin as he steadied the heavy pot and carefully carried it into the tub room

 _God, a bath is going to feel great_ , Jim thought as he moved into the room.

Sweat beading on his brow from the stifling heat from the stove, Jim unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. Then he grabbed some rags from the shelf over the work counter next to the stove and lifted one of the boiling pots away from the heat.

"Jim!" Blair exclaimed when he turned around. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I figured," he replied as he moved closer and Blair slipped to the side to give him entrance to the little cubbyhole. Blair's face was flushed from the heat, and curling tendrils of hair stuck to his skin. "You're gonna need to drink a gallon of water to replace all that sweat," Jim observed. "Sit down for a minute while I finish filling the tub. Have some of that lemonade I smell cooling in one of the buckets."

"Gladly," Blair puffed. He filled a large glass with the icy cold lemonade and sank onto a kitchen chair. "The water needs to cool off a bit, anyway," he gasped after a long swallow. "It's been so damned hot in here all day that it's hardly cooled at all."

"How long do we have to wait?" Jim asked as he dumped in the last pot.

"Not long," Blair told him. Standing, he grabbed the alcohol from the table and poured in a goodly amount. "In fact, we can add a little cool water and it should be fine."

"Sounds like a plan," Jim agreed, shucking off his boots and jeans, while Blair poured the last of the cold water in the bucket into the tub. Jim inhaled deeply, savoring the herbal scents and let the heat in the air permeate his skin and muscles.

"See how that feels," Blair said as he moved past. "I can bring in another bucket, if need be."

Jim held his hand just above the surface and closed his eyes as he sensed the heat rising. "I think it's good," he reported.

"Great," Blair returned. "I'm just going to hang the 'Doctor is out' sign on the door, to make sure we've got some privacy," he went on as he ambled toward the hall.

Jim climbed into the steaming water and, exhaling a deep sigh of satisfaction, leaned back and closed his eyes. When he heard Blair come padding back, he shifted his legs to give his partner room at the other end of the enormous tub.

"Oh, man, that feels good," Blair sighed, sinking down to let the water cover his shoulders and soak the ends of his hair.

For long minutes, they simply let the hot water soothe and ease their muscles. When the water began to cool, they reached for their cakes of soap, lathering their skin, glad to get rid of the sand and grit. The herbal scents relaxed Jim further, and the oatmeal soap was gentle on his skin. Swiveling around in the water, Jim relished the feel of Blair's strong hands massaging his scalp and shoulders, as Blair lathered his hair and back. This touching, the easy intimacy of it, the comfort of touching and being touched, was vital to him. Blair grounded him, helped him to stay balanced, easing the hard edge of his anxiety about the coming days and giving him the strength to face and do what he knew would be needed. When Blair finished, Jim signaled him to turn around and he soaped his friend's hair, lingering over Blair's curls, liking their silken feel in his hands. As he washed Blair's back, he hoped that his touch in some way helped Blair find some of the same peace. Blair reached down beside the tub for the pitcher he left there. Filling it, he said, "Lean forward." When Jim complied, he rinsed the soap from his friend's hair, and then Jim returned the favor, though it took a couple dousings to get all the bubbles out of the thick curls.

Jim pulled the plug to drain the tub when they stood to get out. Their skin was still damp when they toweled off, the alcohol evaporating and leaving them with a deliciously cool feeling despite the heavy hot air that surrounded them. Refreshed, sharing a basin on the kitchen counter and the small mirror on the wall, they shaved, and Blair handed Jim a jar of aloe lotion to smooth over his face to ease the razor's burn.

As they mounted the steps to dress, Jim asked, "You okay? I know all this isn't what we hoped for when we were on our way back home. And … and I know none of this is easy for you."

Blair paused on the step and looked back at him. "Okay? Yeah, yeah, I am," he murmured, as if surprised to realize that he was. He smiled then, and his expression was clear and relaxed, his gaze steady and confident. "So long as I'm with you, I'm a whole lot better than 'okay'. I can face whatever this world throws at me, so long as I've got you. You give me strength, and courage. And … and I can't explain it, but being with you, being loved by you … puts everything else in perspective, I guess. Nothing seems as bad or as difficult when I'm with you."

Jim felt his heart swell and he felt so … good, so affirmed, knowing that Blair felt as he did, that he did for Blair what Blair did for him. He hoped what he felt was in his smile, his eyes, and his voice, as he replied huskily, "Same here, Chief. Same here."

* * *

When they walked into the hotel lobby, Megan was waiting for them. Her smile was wide as she crossed the floor to greet them, giving them each a quick hug.

"My, my, don't the two of your clean up nice," she teased, "and smell nice, too." Walking between them toward the dining room, she looped an arm through theirs and crowed softly, "The two most attractive men in town – and I've got you all to myself tonight."

They laughed and shook their heads at her enthusiastic nonsense and, giving one another a quick look, they each knew the other was glad for the distraction, the chance to simply relax with a good friend and have a pleasant meal. They needed to enjoy a few hours without worrying about the pressures, the threats and the dangers that loomed around them.

Entering into the spirit of the evening, they gave her the silver necklace and earrings they'd brought her, and were pleased by her surprise and pleasure in their gift. Then they told her stories about their journeys to the reservation and out to the far west, though they didn't tell her everything. They weren't yet ready – might never be ready – to tell about the miracles that had happened. Those experiences, those moments, were too intimate, too … too awesome, and they were still dealing with those memories themselves. Nor did they reveal anything about Blair's powers, any more than they'd ever told her about Jim's senses. They knew she guessed a good deal, but they still felt better holding that special knowledge close, sharing it only with family, like William and Steven, Simon and Joel, even Henri and Toby, men who had gone through the fire with them. Megan was a damned good friend, but she wasn't 'family'. Besides, there were others in the dining room who could easily overhear everything they talked about.

Though the dining room was warm, the building was well-insulated against the exhausting heat outside and felt downright cool in comparison. The food her chef had prepared was excellent, the wine cool and tart. When the coffee came, it was rich and mellow, easy on their tongues. As they sat back, relaxed and in good spirits, letting the meal settle as they sipped the coffee, she looked from one to another and, with a look a bemused indulgence, she murmured, "The two of you are bloody amazing, you know that?"

"What?" Blair exclaimed with a surprised smile, his eyebrows arching under the curls that spilled over his forehead.

Jim just cocked an amused curious brow, inviting her to explain.

"Well, look at you! Three months facing down amazing challenges – Geronimo and those railroad bozos, for pity's sake – and you sit there as if it was all just an interesting interlude. And then you come home to the wretched mess we've got here, but are either of you worried? If you are, you certainly hide it well. You have no idea how your … your calm and confidence reassures the rest of us. No idea at all. But, honestly, you must be worried – you're only human, after all."

Blair's mouth fell open and his gaze skittered away, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say.

Jim inhaled deeply and wished she'd left the subject alone. But she hadn't and it was sitting there now, on the table between them, like a bull pawing the ground – not yet charging, but the threat was there. "Yes, we're worried," he replied with slow deliberation as he looked into her eyes. "Kincaid and his people are tearing this town apart, destroying a lot of the good we had here with their rabid prejudice and their bullying tactics."

She nodded glumly and twisted her linen napkin in her hands. Tossing it onto the table, she said angrily, "I despise that man. But I'm damned if I know how to stop him, or what he's doing."

"We might not be able to stop him," Blair reflected. "Maybe all we can do is hold our own line, refuse to play his game by his rules."

"You think he'll settle for that?" she challenged, her eyes flashing. "I don't think he'll be satisfied until he either controls us all or … or drives those of us who won't capitulate to him out of Bitterwood Creek."

Cocking his head, Jim thought about that. How many people that day had told either him or Blair that they didn't want to live in the kind of place Kincaid was trying to create? "Are you saying you might toss in the towel? Pack up and go?"

"It's a big world, mate," she sighed. "And life's too short to spend it in misery or fear, if there's a choice. So, yes, I've been thinking about it. About selling up and starting over somewhere else."

"It might come to that," Blair said soberly. "But it's too soon to make that decision. This town – this town is worth fighting for, the people here are worth trying to find a way to keep what we had, the respect, the sense of peace and safety. If we all just give up, then how will anything ever change for the better?"

"See, that's what I meant. The two of you have no ties here. But instead of pulling up stakes, you're committed to try to make things better," she said. "I don't know how many people in your positions would choose to stay."

"But we do have ties here," Blair argued, if without heat. "We've got a lot of friends in this town – good friends. Like you. People who make it worth trying to work things out, worth staying to … well, to fight, if we have to." He hesitated and shrugged. "Maybe, maybe we'll find out that it's too big, that we can't stop what's happening. Maybe we will have to move on. But we don't know that yet. Not for sure. It's … it's too soon to know."

She studied the two of them, her perceptive gaze sharp. "What aren't you saying? You think it will come to a fight? When?"

Once again he and Blair exchanged glances. Jim sighed and gave a quick look around the room. There were too many strangers to speak openly; any one of them could be one of Kincaid's people, or at least people who sympathized with him and might carry tales. Lowering his voice, he simply said, "Kincaid came to see me this morning. He was, uh, concerned that I didn't feel I needed the help of any of his men to keep the law in this town. And he suggested I take a couple days to rethink my position on that."

"Oh, my," she exclaimed softly, her own gaze now roaming the room. Pressing her lips together, she nodded once and swallowed. Taking a breath, she lifted her glass in a salute. "To two of the men who keep the law in Bitterwood Creek and to you, Doc, for also keeping us healthy. We couldn't have any better protectors." After she took a sip, she set the glass down and said with a fixed smile and such quiet intensity that Blair had to lean forward to catch her words, "If it's to be a fight, I'll bloody well not be leaving you boyos to fight alone, I can promise you that."

"To friends," Jim replied, as he lifted his glass to her, knowing he'd have to return on the morrow when they could meet privately, to talk more candidly to her. He didn't like the idea of a woman involving herself in the fight, but Megan was already in it. Kincaid was badmouthing her and attempting to intimidate her, threatening to drive her out of business. And 'fight' didn't have to mean being on the line of fire – it could also mean offering provisions and a safe place of refuge, if it was needed. But if it did come to actual shooting, Megan was a frontier woman who knew how to handle a rifle and a handgun, a woman who had stood on her own in a man's world and who knew how to fight for her place in it. They could have worse partners when the dance was called.

"To friends," Blair echoed as he clinked Jim's crystal goblet with his own, meeting his eyes before he turned his gaze to Megan. "The true wealth and comfort of life."

* * *

When they left the hotel, the still air was heavy and sticky with humidity and the heat hadn't abated. The town was quiet but for the tinkling music and low rumble of voices in the saloon. Before going home, they walked their nightly patrol of the town, Jim stretching out his hearing and sight, Blair pacing him quietly, a light hand on his back. Except for the buildings being erected, there was little evidence that things in Bitterwood Creek had markedly changed. Kincaid's followers were still all camped out on the prairie, a half-mile from edge of town. Blair thought about them, the women and children, as he gazed at the bare wood rising into the darkness, and he wondered if equal effort was going into building their homes.

When they passed the school, Jim said, "Starting tomorrow, I'll be walking H's kids to school every morning and escorting them home at night."

Startled by the unexpected revelation, Blair wasn't sure what to say. It was a great idea, in some ways – in many ways. But… "What about the days when you can't?" he asked, unwilling to more clearly voice his fears for Jim's wellbeing as the coming days, maybe weeks, unfolded.

"We'll just have to take it a day at a time," Jim replied with a shrug, conscious that the sentiment was becoming a litany of sorts. Looking down at Blair, he offered, "Who knows? Kincaid may just ignore me until he gets to be mayor and has the satisfaction of sending me packing."

Huffing a laugh at that, Blair murmured, "We can hope that's his plan."

"By the way, H is going to ride out with you if you get word that you're needed outside town." A small frown puckered Jim's brow. "And don't give me any shit about not needing a baby-sitter or some damned thing."

Blair shook his head. "I won't," he said, though he wished the protection wasn't necessary; wished that Henri wasn't maybe putting himself in more danger on his account. "I appreciate…" His voice fell away as his anger surged again, and he had to take a steadying breath. He didn't know who he was more angry with: Kincaid, for creating the threat, or himself, for being so useless when it came to protecting himself from physical threat. Maybe he should … should carry his own weapon. Though it went against everything he believed, maybe it was time. "I hate that it's necessary," he growled, squinting into the darkness. "But I understand the need."

Jim looped an arm around his shoulders. After a moment, he said, "I can hear the wheels turning, Chief. I can read what you're thinking on your face. If you feel it's needed, carry a gun – in fact, it would make me feel better, because I know you'll use it if you have to. But carry it concealed. You're not a gunman, and I don't want anyone forcing you into a corner because they know you're armed. Some men – most, I hope – are still squeamish about shooting an unarmed man."

Blair tightened his jaw and nodded. Hell of a world. He might end up shooting some guy one minute – and then treating the wound and saving the bastard's life the next.

"Town's quiet. C'mon, Sandburg. Let's call it a night."

* * *

When Jim woke early the next morning, he grimaced at the heavy heat of the air. If it was this bad just after dawn, the day was going to be a scorcher. Skin sticky with sweat, he headed downstairs. Though the thought of hot coffee didn't appeal to him, and the idea of stoking up the stove was repellent, he felt muzzy and knew he needed the energy, so he spooned coffee into the metal strainer, filled the pot with water, stirred the embers, added kindling, and set the percolator on the stove. Outside, after leaving the privy, he hauled a bucket of water and poured it over his head, hissing at the icy shock. But it worked, leaving him practically shivering as he drew a second bucket and carried it inside. While the coffee perked, he returned upstairs to dress.

A few minutes later, he filled a clay mug with steaming coffee and let it cool while he shaved. His ears were bothering him, a low-level, not quite aching sensation that he'd come to accept as his own personal early warning system that a storm was coming, though it was still a long way off – a day, maybe two. Sipping his coffee, he looked out at the dust motes hovering in the beams of sunlight and thickening the air of the windless street. A storm would help clear the air, cool things off; so far as he was concerned, it couldn't come fast enough.

He heard the rumbling thunder of hoofbeats some time before Kincaid's men galloped through town on their way to work. Jim glared at them as they rode by and shook his head. Too damned many of them to crowd into the small jail for disturbing the peace – and he was wary of precipitating a war before he was ready to fight it. Chewing on his lip, he struggled with the anxiety knotting in his gut. Kincaid was a formidable adversary. Was he biting off more than he could chew? Was he wrong or right to stay to fight? Shaking his head, not having any answers, he washed his mug, drew the percolator off the heat, and then strapped on his guns.

The enticing scent of fresh bread baking in Maisie's shop reminded him of the biscuits she'd brought the day before. Grabbing a couple and a hunk of cheese, he donned his Stetson and headed out to face the day.

Henri's girls were ecstatic to see him; little Cherie practically climbed his body to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. "Merci, t'ank you," she exclaimed, her beaming smile showing the gap of a missing tooth. "Ah's so happy to go see m'frien's today."

Grinning at her, he pulled one of her pigtails and set her down. "I'll take care of them," he promised Henri and Hannah who were doing their best to hide their nervousness from the children.

"Ah knows you will," Hannah replied, and found a smile for him.

He tipped his hat and led the girls out. "Stay close now," he cautioned when, in their excitement, they seemed ready to dash off ahead. "Don't want you getting lost."

"Lost!" they cried in unison. Rose, the eldest, insisted, "We won't get lost. We knows the way," sounding insulted that he'd think any different.

"Well, okay, I might get lost," he replied. "So you best not leave me behind."

Rose looked at him like he'd suddenly lost his mind but, Cherie, evidently worried that he just might get lost, took hold of his hand to lead him along. Hiding his smile, he thanked her for taking good care of him.

Men were already hard at work on the building projects when they passed by. Their shouts and ribald jests turned to sullen silence when they noticed him escorting the girls to the school. He heard sub-vocal curses and caustic remarks, but he could tell his two young charges were oblivious to the hostility surrounding them. Kincaid stepped out from around the end of the last structure and stood in the middle of the boardwalk, watching them approach. His face was devoid of expression, his gaze glacial as he stared at the girls and then at Jim.

Wondering if the man would give way or force a confrontation, Jim swept Cherie up to hold her in the crook of his left arm and said to Rose, "Stay behind me and right close." And he kept on walking, his right arm swinging easily but near enough to his Colt to be a mute caution to Kincaid. Jim held the man's glare as they drew closer.

"Mornin', Kincaid," he said, his tone dry but not aggressive.

Kincaid snorted but stepped aside. "You been doin' any thinkin' about our talk?" he challenged as Jim ambled past with Rose scurrying along behind.

"Oh, yes, I have," Jim replied with a sideways glance that gave nothing away. "Lots of thinking. You been thinking about telling your men to slow down in town?"

Kincaid's gaze narrowed but he didn't answer. Jim wasn't prepared to push it, not when he had the girls with him.

And then they were past and the schoolyard was only a few steps further on. Setting Cherie down, he waved them forward. "You girls be good in school – and you wait for me to come for you. Don't be going home on your own, y'hear?"

"But why –" Cherie began, sounding puzzled, only to be hushed by Rose. "Nevermind," she hissed, and then looked up at Jim, her dark eyes revealing more understanding of 'why' than he'd credited. "We'll be here, Sheriff Jim."

He cupped his hand over the top of her head. "Good girl," he praised, and gave her a reassuring smile.

Waiting while they dashed across the yard, calling to their friends, laughing to be there, his gaze narrowed and he cast a look back over his shoulder at Kincaid who was now talking with one his men. There was something about the whole situation that reminded him of the massacre at Poplar Flats two years before – a sick madness that made war on women and little children. He didn't understand such wanton cruelty, and it revolted him. _Same kind of men,_ he decided with disgust. _Same kind of thinking._

When he saw the girls climb onto the low, narrow porch and disappear into the schoolhouse, he took a breath to calm the fierce storm of memories. He couldn't let his emotions get out of control. Couldn't let Kincaid or any of his men bait him into doing something foolish.

Later that morning, on his way into the hotel, he saw Sam Sloan riding out in his fancy buggy. Though he did nothing more than give a casual wave, same as he'd done many times in the past, he knew his hopes were pinned on Sam, on the man's meeting with Simon and Joel, though he had no doubts that the two ranchers would back him. He was much more worried about Sam's efforts to raise support amongst the men of Bitterwood Creek. In case they'd be called upon; in case they'd be needed to save their town from sliding into hell.

The lobby was filled with guests waiting for the stage. They sat in desultory silence, numbed by the heat, and didn't seem to notice his entrance. Megan looked up from the register on the reception desk and gave him a wary look of assessment.

"Morning," he greeted.

"I can guess why you're here," she returned, her posture stiff and determined.

"I'm sure you can," he agreed, his tone mild as he glanced around at the departing men and their baggage. "Maybe we could talk in your office?"

With a tight nod, she waved him around the desk to the office behind. Marching in behind him, she closed the door and growled, "Don't think you can come in here and patronize me, just because I'm a woman. If there's to be trouble, then I'm not going to stand back as if the outcome doesn't matter to me. I'm perfectly capable of –"

"Whoa, slow down, Calamity," he laughed and held his hands up in defense. "What? You think I'd make the same mistake Kincaid does? Patronize you? Not hardly. I know enough not to underestimate you."

"Oh," she exclaimed and blinked at him, put off-balance by not getting the expected fight. "Well, fine, then. We understand each other."

"Uh huh," Jim grunted and sat down in one of the sturdy leather chairs by the desk. "But I did want to make sure you're clear on what might be going down and when."

She frowned, serious and focused as she rounded the desk and sat down, folding her hands together in a curiously prim manner. "Good. I'm listening."

He brought her up-to-date on his discussions with Kincaid and Sloan, and outlined his concerns that things could begin to heat up as early as the next day.

Fanning herself, she muttered, "As if things _could_ get any hotter around here."

"Megan, I respect your determination to help, and I admire you for it," he began.

"Oh, no. Here it comes," she snapped sarcastically.

"Would you let me finish?" he challenged. When she subsided and nodded, he went on, "You could be our ace in the hole. Kincaid won't consider you any kind of threat – probably doesn't pay any attention to you or what you think at all."

"You've got that right," she agreed.

"Fine, well, I think the hotel could be where we make a stand, if … if it comes to that. The roof is higher than any other building in town, which would give us an advantage in terms of holding off a concerted assault." He paused. "If we end up in a shooting war, I don't want you on the roof – I want you to get out of here as soon as it starts looking bad and go to the Telegraph Office, to send a message to the federal marshal in Wichita to get here with reinforcements."

Her gaze narrowed into a glare. "You _are_ trying to keep me out of it," she charged.

"No, no, I'm not. But I need someone Kincaid won't notice to get out our yell for help; I know I can count on you to do that."

"And after I send the message?" she enquired with caustic sweetness.

"If Simon and his bunch haven't arrived, you'll need to ride out and get them here, as fast as humanly possible."

"Kincaid will think I'm running," she said flatly.

"I hope so; I'm counting on that," Jim agreed. "Megan, I don't know if the men in this town will back me against Kincaid. They're scared, all of them. Kincaid has too many men. Doc isn't a gunman, but he'll shoot if he has to. Henri … Henri has a family to worry about, but I'm betting he'd be on that roof with me and Blair. The three of us can't hold out forever alone. I'm sure you're quite the markswoman but one more gun won't help. I need my own small army. You're the only one I can count on to get me what I need."

Finally, she nodded. "Alright. You've convinced me. What else can I do?"

"We need to start stockpiling weapons and ammunition, so it's handy if we need it."

"I keep a fair assortment of rifles and shotguns, along with the ammunition, in case any of my guests are interested in doing some hunting while they're here." Standing, she unhooked her key-ring from her belt and opened a closet door, gesturing to him to take a look.

What he saw both surprised and pleased him. "Good," he murmured with a grateful nod. "Just what we might need." Turning to look at her, he said, "And last but not least, I need you to keep an eye out, watch what's going on, who's where. Kincaid might not try anything at all. He might let things ride for a while, figuring he can get rid of me without a fight in a few months' time. But…" he hesitated, looked away, "if he decides not to wait, I don't think he'll come at me straight on, not as a first move, anyway. I think a bullet in the back might be more his style or an even quieter assault in the shadows of an alley." Returning his gaze to hers, his tone taut, he directed, "If you hear or see anything that makes you think something is going down; if you don't see either me or Blair, or even Brown, when we'd normally be around – check our house, my office, the stable. If you can't find us – send the message to Wichita and get to Simon fast."

Her expression sober, she clasped his arm and nodded. "I'll make sure to get help," she promised.

"Thanks," he sighed and stepped away.

"You know," she offered, her voice gentle with concern, "maybe you and Blair should just write this town off. It's not worth dying for."

Evading her eyes, he wasn't sure she was wrong. "I've thought about it," he admitted. "We've talked about it. God knows, things are better on the frontier. There can be violence, sure, but … this insidious hate…" He didn't have the words to express the depth of his feelings, to explain how loathsome he found it, how dangerous. "Out there, where you're trying to survive, nobody much cares who you are. They care about whether you can hold your own and be trusted." His lips thinned and he shook his head. Looking at her, he said, "We're gonna give it our best shot. Try to hold onto what we have here. Do what we can for the folks who've become our friends. But … I won't risk him, not forever. Maybe not for long. We just have to see how it plays out over the next while."

"I hope you don't leave it too long," she replied. Rubbing the back of her neck, she reflected, "Maybe it's time for a lot of us to move on. The bigotry does seem to be part of _civilization_ , doesn't it?" Heaving a sigh, she murmured, "They're booming up in the Dakota Territory. There's gold. A classy hotel would probably make a fortune out there."

"Probably would," Jim agreed somberly. "Not many women in those parts."

She gave him an impish, ironic grin. "Ah, sounds just about perfect. I could be Queen of the Hills."

Barking a laugh, he nodded. "Figures you'd see it that way."

* * *

Blair was surprised to wake so late in the day. Sitting up and raking back his hair, he reached for his glasses and looked out at the sky. Still crystal clear, dammit. God, the heat was like a lead weight, heavy and relentless. Still, as he got to his feet and pulled on his jeans before padding downstairs, he reflected that he felt better than he had in days.

"Must've needed the sleep," he muttered to himself.

He washed up outside, the icy water making him shiver and he chuckled. There didn't seem to be any happy mediums in his world.

Looking up at the sky, searching for even the faintest wisp of cloud, he thought about how he'd spend his day. Didn't have any rounds to do. Seemed nobody was sick.

Shrugging, he went back inside to break his fast. And then he thought he'd take stock of his supplies. If Milt wasn't going to keep him stocked with potions and powders anymore, then he'd best get busy making his own, and ordering what he couldn't make with what he had on hand.

When Jim came in for lunch, he served up tomato and cheese sandwiches, washed down with chilled tea. It was just too damned hot to even think about heating up the stove.

He spent the early part of the afternoon working on his journal. When he found himself listening for the door, waiting for some patient to show up, he gave himself a little shake. It was just a lull; that was all. Soon enough, he'd be run off his feet again. And he told himself he was glad of the quiet; glad to have the time to record notes in the journal. Glad to have a period of respite, to catch his breath and rest after the duress of the last weeks. Grateful, even, to not be pushed to his limits when he knew damned well that he wasn't in peak condition.

And, hell, if another patient never did show up … well, it wasn't like he and Jim didn't have options. Setting down his quill pen, he stared out the window and thought about Kincaid. About how things would probably get a whole lot worse before they got any better.

"You might be their sentinel," he grated into the silence. "But I'll be damned if I'll let this town be the death of you."

The heat and the silence were oppressive. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to move; had to get out of the house. Giving up on the expectation that anyone was going to need doctoring that day, he went outside to the shed next to the stable. Might as well make himself useful and catch their supper. Besides, if there was to be any relief to be found from the heat, it would be down by the water, in the dappled shadows under the trees. Gathering up his fishing pole, he ambled down to the creek.

* * *

When Jim got home, he sniffed at the scent of fresh fish grilling over open flames and smiled. Ambling through the house, he found Blair outside, hunkered down by a small fire in the pit near the well. His friend was frying potatoes and onions in one pan and, in another, fillets of fresh trout were just beginning to turn brown.

"Hey," he called.

Blair looked up and smiled. Gesturing toward the food, he said, "Too hot to cook or eat in the house. Thought we'd pretend we're camping out on the prairie."

Jim's response was cut off by the rumbling thunder of hooves that was becoming all too familiar. Irritated, he turned toward the sound … and then he heard a muffled squeal followed by a full-throated high-pitched scream that broke into an undulating wail of horror.

"God!" Blair exclaimed, quickly jerking the hot pans off the fire and setting them on the ground. He was one step ahead of Jim as they dashed through the house, stopping only to grab his medical bag and then racing after Jim out the front door.

"Oh, Jesus," Jim breathed as Blair pushed past him, jumping down off the boardwalk to run across the dirt road.

Dust was still thick in the air from the passing of the riders, some of whom had pulled up at the horrified scream and were watching from fifty feet further along. On the other side of the street, Maisie had come out of her bakeshop and was standing frozen, her hands pressed to her mouth. Further along, Milt Ambrose came out of his shop to stare at them all.

"It's jest one o' em pickaninnies," one of the riders called, rough and ugly.

And on the street just in front of the stable, Hannah was crouched on the ground, Cherie's broken body pressed to her breast as she wailed her heart-broken grief. Henri, looking stunned in disbelieving shock, was down on one knee beside her, an arm around her shoulders. Rose was huddled in the broad entry to the stables, tears streaking her stricken face.

Blair skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees. "Let me see her," he commanded gently.

Hannah was rocking the child, mindless in her hideous sorrow. "Ma p'tite, ma p'tite," she sobbed. "Elle est morte, morte. Dead. Cherie. Oh, oh, Cherie."

Blair's head snapped around at the sound of raucous laughter from Kincaid's riders, and Jim could see the raw fury on his partner's face as he slowly crossed the street, feeling sick to his soul. The poor, innocent, beautiful child and those bastards had … had….

But Blair turned back to Hannah. Gently but firmly, murmuring reassuringly, he gradually drew the child from her mother's arms, and Jim could see that Cherie's neck had been broken. "Let me see," Blair crooned. "Let me help her."

Jim couldn't believe there was anything that could be done for the girl. But he read the determined line of Blair's shoulders, and he suddenly understood what Blair was planning to do. Breathless, he quickened his pace. Fear for his partner blossomed as he heard again Swift Eagle's stern warning: _'they can't help themselves, they are driven to help. You must watch over him. You must….'_

Jim hunkered down and gripped Blair's shoulder as he peered down at Cherie's face. She looked whole, like she was only sleeping, but for the drying froth of blood on her lips, and the fact that she wasn't breathing. "Chief, you can't…" he rasped fiercely.

One of Blair's hands cradled her small head and neck, and his other hand skimmed over her chest. "Yes, I can," he hissed. "And I damned well will." Looking past Jim, his eyes widened and then he nodded with respect. "Help me," he whispered so soft even Jim could barely hear him.

Following his glance, Jim saw Blair's wolf shimmering close by, ephemeral and yet clearly there. But it was the image of the frightened little girl clinging to the animal and crying for her 'mama' that drove the breath from his throat and brought tears to his eyes. Jim looked at Henri and Hannah, at Rose, and could tell none of them could see the apparitions.

"Ground me, Jim," Blair commanded in a hoarse murmur. "Lend me your strength." And then he bowed his head and chanted softly under his breath, calling Cherie, calling her to come home.

Jim didn't know what to do, other than to tighten his grip on Blair's shoulder. He could feel a surge of heat radiate from Blair's body and he saw a brief flash of blinding blue light flare from the child's face. Blair shuddered under his hand, and the heat was gone as if it had never been. As quickly as it dissipated, Cherie started to wail for her mother and squirmed in Blair's grip, her arms stretching toward Hannah.

"Mon Dieu!" Hannah gasped, her eyes widening and her mouth gaping open. Visibly shaking, she drew her child close, holding her, rocking her and laughing, tears streaming down her face. Tears leaked from Brown's eyes, too, as he looked from his wife and very alive child to Blair. His mouth trembled and he seemed to be trying to finding something to say, but no words came.

"Cherie?" Rose called with awed hope, and then she was shrieking Cherie's name in paroxysm of relieved delight as she raced to hug her mother and baby sister.

Beyond them, the riders had fallen silent. "It's the Devil's work," one of them growled.

Blair rose to his feet but swayed dizzily, and Jim was quick to put a steadying hand on his back. Turning toward the riders, his expression livid with fury, Blair yelled with raw passion, "Damn you! Damn you all! You could have destroyed this child! Get the hell out of here! Go!"

Jim saw fear grow on their faces as Blair cursed them. Slowly at first – as if wary of turning their backs on him – and then in haste, they drew their mounts around and, kicking them hard, rode away hard and fast, as if the Devil himself was chasing them from town.

"Easy, Chief," he cautioned, frightened himself by Blair's pallor and shakiness. "Let's get you home."

His expression rigid, breathing hard, Blair nearly stumbled as he shifted his footing and started walking slowly and unsteadily across the road, as if he was in a daze – or barely able to stand. Jim hooked an arm around his shoulders to support him, and practically lifted him back up onto the boardwalk before climbing up himself.

When they got inside and he'd closed the door behind them, he saw that tears were staining Blair's cheeks.

"They were laughing," Blair choked out, a mangled sound of mingled fury and pain. "They'd trampled that child and they were _laughing_!"

"I know," Jim replied carefully, watching his partner closely, not sure what to expect, what to do. He knew, of course he knew Blair had such power, but he'd never witnessed it before. His throat was dry with the fear of what the healing might have cost. "Come on, you need to sit down. Maybe have some brandy."

Blair raised a hand, waving him off dismissively. "I'm fine," he insisted, but his voice was trembling with weakness. He looked up at Jim and his lips parted to say something more, but his eyes rolled back and he crumpled.

"Sandburg!" Jim exclaimed, catching him before he hit the floor, easing him down. Jim could hear his partner's heart pounding too slowly and Blair was barely breathing. Gathering him up, he couldn't help but notice that Blair felt much, much lighter than he should, as if he wasn't all there, was somehow fading away, and that scared Jim more than anything else had that day. Swiftly, Jim carried him along the hall and into the infirmary to lay him on a cot. Despite the heat, Blair's skin felt cold, so he covered him with a light blanket. Remembering what Blair had told Simon that spring after Joel had been shot by Quinn, that people in shock needed to have their heads lower than their feet, he raced to the office and grabbed an armload of thick books. Back in the infirmary, he piled them under the legs of the cot beneath Blair's feet. Then he loosened Sandburg's belt and took off his boots.

Kneeling beside him, Jim laid a hand over Blair's brow and cupped his cheek. Frightened, he didn't know what else to do, how to help. Didn't know if there was anything he _could_ do.

"Chief? Blair? Can you hear me?" he called with hoarse terror.

The front door opened and boots thumped along the hall. "Jim? Blair?" Henri called.

"Back here," Jim yelled back.

"My God," Henri was saying as he drew close, "I've never seen the like of –" But his voice choked when he entered the large room and he stumbled to a halt. "What? What's wrong with him?" he gasped in little more than a whisper.

Jim shook his head. "It wears him out," he answered, not sure what else to say. Not really knowing what was wrong.

"Yeah," Brown sighed reverently. "Guess workin' a miracle could do that to a man." Coming closer, worry straining his face, he asked, "He'll be alright, though, right? He didn't do nothin' bad to himself?"

"I don't know; I hope not," Jim muttered helplessly. "I … I think he just needs to rest."

"It _was_ a miracle, wasn't it?" Henri probed. "My little Cherie, she was … she was gone. I know she was gone. And Blair … Blair b-brought her b-back to us." His voice broke and he sagged down on the next cot, his hands covering his face and his shoulders quaking. "He saved her. My God, he brought her back," he mumbled in awe, nearly inarticulate with immense gratitude, a relief so vast it defied expression.

Jim felt the burn in his own eyes, and he pressed them closed to keep tears from falling. Bowing his head, numb with the wonder of what he'd seen and the fear that filled him for Blair's wellbeing, he nodded. "Yeah," he rasped. "He did. But keep what he did quiet. Folks in this town, well, I don't think they'd understand." He had to stop, and swallow past the lump in his throat, before he could ask, "Cherie – how is she?"

"Scared," Henri replied, and drew in a long breath. "She doesn't remember what happened. There was blood in her hair on the back of her head, and some on her clothes but not a mark on her body. She's just … scared, but she's okay. She keeps sayin' somethin' about a wolf. Keeps lookin' around, tryin' to find it, says it's her friend." He swiped his face with his hands and shook his head. "I don't have any idea what's she's talkin' about – I'm just glad to hear her talkin', you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Jim murmured, and looked up at his friend. Despite his worry for Blair, he couldn't help a soft smile. "I'm real glad she's okay, Henri. _Real_ glad."

"It all happened so fast," Brown said then, his voice distant as he remembered. "The girls were playing in the stable, throwing a ball around, laughing, teasing. Just, just being kids. And the ball went flying out the door, rolling into the street. Cherie didn't stop to look, just ran out to get it. I shouted at her but … the horses … and they … she…"

"Stop it," Jim commanded quietly. "It's over and she's okay. She's fine, H. She's just fine."

Drawing a shuddering breath, Brown nodded and again swiped at his eyes. Sniffing, he looked at Blair. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, I think he just needs to sleep," Jim said with a sigh. "You should go on back home. Your family needs you right now. Don't worry. I'm sure he'll be okay. I'll let him know you were here."

Henri hesitated, but then he rose to his feet. "There's no way I'll ever be able to thank him for this. No way I can ever…"

"It's okay, H. It's okay. Doc … Blair, well, he lives to heal people. It's who he is. What he is. A healer. He loves your kids, Henri. I know he won't want your thanks – he'll just be real glad that Cherie is okay." Jim tipped his head toward the doorway. "Go on. Go home to your family."

Brown nodded. Stepping close to the cot, he laid his palm down on Blair's shoulder. "My kids love him, too; both of you. We all do. You sure you don't need help? That he's just sleeping?"

"Yeah, pretty sure," Jim affirmed.

Henri took a deep breath and turned away. "I'll be back later tonight, just to check, you know?"

"I know. Thanks."

"And I'll do the rounds. Don't you worry none about that," he called, sounding determined, as he stepped into the hall. But his steps slowed, stopped. "What do I say when folks ask? Maisie saw it; so did Ambrose."

"They were too far away," Jim replied wearily. "Say … just say she got clipped by a horse and the wind knocked out of her."

"Okay, Jim," Brown agreed, his tone low, reluctant. "But we won't ever forget. Not ever."

When Henri was gone, Jim sighed and scrubbed his face. He hated the need to lie, wished the world could know what Blair had done. But … after folks got over being amazed, they'd be afraid, and he knew Blair never wanted anyone to fear him.

He rubbed his partner's arm, lightly, wishing his touch could bring comfort but knowing Blair had no idea he was there. Tucking the blanket more closely around Blair's shoulders, and gently combing the curls back from Blair's brow, he whispered, "You did good, Chief. Jesus, I saw it with my own eyes and I still can hardly believe … but … but you're scaring the hell out of me, here, Sandburg. I hope to God you're okay."

He searched Blair's face for any sign he'd been heard, but there was no response. Tilting his head, he listened to Blair's heart and relaxed a little to hear it strengthen and speed toward a more normal rhythm.

 _Blood,_ he thought, and remembered Blair's hand cradling the back of Cherie's head. Needing to do something, he fetched water and a clean rag. Easing Blair's hand out from under the blanket, he felt awe when he looked at the stains and knew what they represented; a child had been dead and was now alive, because of this hand, this man. Tenderly, he washed off the blood and dried his partner's skin. When he was done, he simply sat there, holding Blair's hand in both of his own, wishing with all his heart that he could share his warmth, his strength, to restore Blair's vibrancy, to bring him back from wherever he was.

As if the wish was made manifest, Blair's breathing deepened and Jim could not only feel warmth steal back into his hand, but see healthy color begin to relieve the stark pallor of his partner's cheeks. He heard Blair's heart settle into its normal strong, steady beat, and he felt weak with relief.

"Chief?" he called, his voice shaky with hope as he lifted a hand to rest on Blair's brow. "You waking up?"

Blair's lips parted in a sigh, and a furrow appeared between his brows, as if he were confused or struggling to wake. His fingers twitched and curled around Jim's, though his grip was fragile.

"Sandburg? Can you hear me?" Jim urged, his hand sliding from Blair's brow to cup his still too cool cheek.

Blair moaned softly and his face turned into Jim's palm, as if seeking warmth. He blinked and, at first, he seemed dazed, but his eyes cleared as he looked at Jim. "Hey," he breathed. His gaze swept the room and he seemed puzzled. "What am I doing in here?"

"You passed out," Jim told him, searching his face, listening to his breathing and his heartbeat. "Right after you brought Cherie back to life."

Blair seemed startled, his eyes widening and then, the look in his eyes growing distant, he seemed to remember. "Oh, yeah," he sighed. "She okay?"

"She's just fine, Chief. The question is, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so. I just, uh, feel kinda wasted," Blair murmured, as if he lacked the strength to speak more loudly. "Like I'm … I don't know. Faded. Washed out. Insubstantial."

Remembering how Blair had seemed almost weightless in his arms, Jim's throat constricted with dread, wondering if this strangeness would pass, or if Blair had given too much of himself away. "What can I do to help?" he asked, his hand gripping Blair's. "What do you need?"

Blair's grip tightened around his hand. "I need … I need your strength," he rasped. "I'm sorry, Jim. But I need you to…"

Jim didn't need to hear more. He'd seen it, experienced it often enough, knew that somehow the two of them were linked, that he might not be able to heal anyone else, but he could heal Blair. He just had to want to, just had to desperately want to. God, why did he keep forgetting or – not believing? How much proof did he need that they had some mystical connection beyond their love for one another? Slipping an arm around Blair's shoulders, Jim drew him up into a hug, embracing him tightly. "'s okay, Chief," he gusted. "I've got strength to spare. I've got you, Blair. I've got you."

Blair sagged against him, leaned into his strength, and sighed as if he'd come home. Jim's eyes burned, and his chest tightened with how much he needed this man, and how much Blair's trust and need of him touched him. Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to Blair's brow.

"I'm s-sorry," Blair stammered. "I don't know what's wrong. I haven't ever felt so … I can't explain it. Like I'm not quite here. Like it's almost too much effort to keep breathing." When he looked up at Jim, his eyes were shadowed with fear. "Whispering Waters said I had to be careful – had to not reach too far. But I couldn't…" His eyes glazed and he looked away. "I couldn't … I had to…"

"I know, Chief, I know," Jim soothed as he rocked Blair gently. "I saw her spirit, too. If I could have, I'd've done the same thing. What happened to her was wrong. So wrong."

Blair's breath shuddered and his head moved in a shallow nod. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, his head bowed and guilt now in his voice. "I … I feel like I'm using you. Leeching away your energy, your strength…" he muttered, his voice close to breaking.

"No, no, never be sorry, never," Jim protested, tightening his embrace. "Let me give you what you so freely give me," he murmured into Blair's ear, and held him close

"Thank you," Blair whispered, husky with unshed tears. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I need you, too, Sandburg," Jim rasped. He shifted to more carefully enfold Blair in his arms, rested his cheek against Blair's head, and clasped his hands with his partner's, deliberately willing his energy to transfer into Blair.

He had such respect for Blair, for the man who would go unarmed, hell, who could barely stand and yet faced down and cursed a gang of rough, violent men who despised him and would as soon shoot him as look at him, because they'd hurt a defenseless child. The man who dedicated his life, his skill, his knowledge, to helping others, to doing his best. The man who had taught him how to trust again, when he'd thought that part of him, that capacity was dead. The man who didn't flinch in the face of danger, who asked no quarter, who was so brave it sometimes terrified Jim. Sharing a part of his life force was a very small price to pay to keep Blair strong … was no price at all, to have Blair in his life.

The energy transfer – as unbelievable as it still seemed – was working. For a while, Jim's hands felt warm and tingly, then almost hot. Finally it subsided to the comforting, reassuring warmth of a sunny day. Blair's breathing deepened and grew stronger. Arms that had been weak now strongly held him as Blair pressed close.

With a sigh of contentment, Blair closed his eyes and drifted into deep – and, Jim sorely hoped – healing sleep. As time slipped past, Jim continued to hold him as he stared out the window at the clear sky, watching the colors bleed from crimson into gold before darkening to the deepest indigo. He heard the stray cats, the mousers that kept down the vermin in the stable, fight over the supper that lay forgotten by the cold ashes near the well. He opened his sense of hearing further, to listen through the still night to the town settling in as the evening deepened, but the ache in his ears was sharpening, and he couldn't make out the subtlety of sound as clearly as usual. The storm was close, would maybe hit by morning.

When he saw the moon begin to rise, he knew Brown would soon be heading out to do the night rounds. Easing away from Blair's embrace, he settled his partner on the cot, and paced down the hall to strap on his guns and grab his hat as he headed outside. Just as he closed the door, Henri came out onto the street and saw him.

"I said I'd handle things tonight," he complained, shaking his head. "You should stay with Doc."

"He's fine, H," Jim assured him, a lot more confident than he had been earlier, as he crossed the wide street to join his deputy. "Just needs rest for maybe a month of Sundays. Cherie?"

"She's … it's like nothin' ever happened," Henri told him, his smile wide and his dark eyes brimming with emotion, too much for words to encompass.

Jim slapped his back. "Okay, then. Let's put the town to bed."

* * *

Puffs of wind through the open windows lifted the curtains and stirred the still hot air, drifting over Blair's body like chill ghostly fingertips. He shivered and woke, blinking to clear his vision in the dim gray light seeping into the room, surprised to find himself in his own bed; Jim must've moved him upstairs sometime during the night before. Rolling over, he looked outside and was relieved to see clouds and not the endless emptiness of a clear sky. Finally, rain was coming and would clear the dust from the air and cool the relentless heat.

Drawing the blanket up over his shoulders, he lay there thinking about what had happened the evening before. He'd been so sick with unspeakable sorrow when he'd seen Cherie's broken little body, torn to his soul by Hannah's terrible grief – and furious, more furious than he'd ever been, at the callous men who had done such irreparable damage, had blithely destroyed such a beautiful young life. Their laughter and crude insults had enraged him. He'd killed before, but only out of necessity. Now, for the first time in his life he had _wanted_ to kill, to punish them, to stop them from ever committing such a hideous crime again.

His wolf spirit had come to guide the child's soul away; he'd understood that and was grateful. But when he'd seen through the veil, had seen Cherie weeping so piteously for her mother, he … he couldn't stand it. Not when he knew he had the power to undo what had been done. The fact that he knew he'd be pushing the boundaries of what he should 'interfere' with or not, that he would be 'playing God', which Whispering Waters had warned him was dangerous, hadn't been enough to stop him. Nor was he sorry, not one bit – but he did understand that he'd put himself in peril, more so than he'd expected. And he'd had to draw energy from Jim to recover. Frowning as he stared up at the cloudbank, he wished he understood this transference of energy, how it worked, why it worked, both of his own to those he did his best to heal, and of Jim's, that restored him; why he could heal others, but Jim could only heal him. Powerful magic. Very powerful and unnerving … even more than a little frightening.

Taking a breath and exhaling slowly, he told himself it didn't matter if he understood it or not. Enough that it was real. And he couldn't resist a small, humble and amazed smile to know that little Cherie was again whole. How could he be anything but grateful for that?

As well as be grateful for and to Jim, for healing him in his turn.

He wasn't fully restored, and would need to rest to build back his energy; he wouldn't be able to pull any more magic tricks out of his bag for a while. But, thanks to Jim, he sure felt a whole lot better than he had when he'd first awakened in the infirmary. Almost normal, in fact – and hungry. Very hungry.

Rising quietly, careful to not wake Jim, who would need extra rest even if he'd never admit it, Blair drew on a second shirt against the chilly wind and padded downstairs. Before long, he had coffee perking and eggs frying in a skillet, while slices of bread browned over the heat into toast.

"Hey," Jim greeted as he came into the kitchen. "You look like you're a lot better."

"Yeah," Blair agreed, looking over his shoulder to smile at his partner. "Not one hundred percent, but pretty good. How about you?"

"Me? I'm fine," Jim assured him. He scraped his stubbled face and went to the basin to wash up and shave. "H stopped in last night – they're, well, they're mighty grateful to you, Chief."

Blair shook his head as he flipped the eggs. "I … well, I understand that, but I don't want…"

"I know. I told him – and I suggested that if anyone asked, that we just say Cherie got clipped by one of the horses and knocked out for a bit."

"That's a good idea," Blair agreed. "Nobody would understand. Man, I'm not even sure I understand."

Jim wiped his face and dried his hands. Setting out plates and then filling two mugs with coffee, he ventured, "It's not something you're supposed to do, is it?"

"No, or at least, it's not something to do lightly," Blair agreed as he dished up their food. "Hard not to do it, though. Impossible last night. I couldn't stop myself."

Jim nodded, his expression thoughtful as he took his place by the table. "You gonna be able to learn how to stop yourself, or is that something I'm going to have to do? Stop you, I mean?"

"Would you have stopped me yesterday if you could?" Blair asked, sitting down at the table.

Jim flicked a look up at him and shook his head. "No … not unless I thought saving her would have killed you." He broke apart a piece of toast and added, "But you pushed it, Chief, and I didn't know how much it would take out of you. I … I was scared when you dropped on me. Next time, next time I might well drag you away before I'd let you risk that again, even for a child."

When Blair didn't say anything, Jim sighed. "I know you don't want to hear that. But, Blair – you can help so many people; you're a great doctor. Killing yourself to save one just leaves all the people you might still help at risk."

"I know; I hear you," Blair agreed.

"Sandburg, how often can you do something like this before it's too much for your body to take?" Jim asked, sounding uneasy. "Once a year? Less? What?"

"I don't know," he replied with a helpless shrug. "I'm just figuring this stuff out."

Jim's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "Then no more of this magic healing stuff for a while, agreed?"

Hesitating, Blair thought about that, and then sighed. Jim was right, he knew that, and knew, as well, that pushing beyond his abilities was dangerous. But, 'a while' was also vague enough to give him the latitude to make up his own mind when it was necessary. "Yeah, yeah," he allowed, telling himself that he'd be careful, that he wouldn't bite off more than he could chew.

Jim gave him a long, wary look, but finally relaxed and went back to polishing his plate. Hiding a smile at how well Jim knew him, and how right he was to be suspicious of such easy acquiescence, Blair finished his own breakfast. He'd be cautious and not do anything stupid. He wasn't looking to kill himself here, just … just to do what he could. The brief flash of humor faded, though, when he thought about the fact that it wasn't just his life he was playing with. Jim needed him, alive and strong, every bit as much as he needed Jim. Not to mention that he needed to draw on Jim's energy when he went too far – his weakness last night, that weird insubstantial feeling, had alarmed him, too. The risks weren't just about him; it was about both of them.

Changing the subject, voicing his own more urgent worries, he asked, "Do you think Kincaid will pull something today – this is when he said 'you'd be on your own', right?"

"Who knows what Kincaid will do?" Jim replied with a grimace. "Guess we just have to keep our eyes open and be prepared for anything."

A hard gust of wind rattled the window beside them and, looking up at the clouds darkening the sky, Jim frowned. "Looks like a big storm brewing."

"Long as it cools things off," Blair returned as he gathered up their dishes and put them to soak in the basin. Returning to the subject at hand, he said, "Since patients don't seem to be banging down the door, I'm going to go out with you today. And … and I think if I do get called out, we should ask H to give you backup, even during the day."

Jim shook his head. "Uh, uh. If you get called out of town to a farm or ranch, H sticks with you. But it shouldn't be a problem. Kincaid isn't going to do anything in broad daylight that might land him in jail – and I expect Simon and his men will arrive before nightfall."

The windows rattled again, and pellets of rain pinged against the glass.

Drawing slickers around their shoulders, they were getting ready to go out to take the Brown children to school, when Blair paused and looked thoughtfully at the street. "I didn't hear the construction gang race into town this morning."

Jim put on his Stetson and tightened the drawstring under his neck, to hold the hat against the depredations of the strengthening wind outside. "No. I'm not sure they even came to town today; I can't hear any work going on. I think you scared them off."

"Me?" Blair squeaked and tilted his head to give him a disbelieving smile from the under the brim of his hat.

"I'm serious, Chief," Jim teased. "You put a hex on them, told them to get out of town. Some of 'em looked downright worried."

"Oh, come on," Blair protested, rolling his eyes as he led the way out. "I can't believe that. You were probably glaring daggers at them and they were afraid you'd jail them – or maybe just shoot them – for hurting a kid."

"Well," Jim allowed with a sardonic grin, "you could be right about that. I was ready to horsewhip the lot of them."

Laughing, Blair elbowed him. "See, I knew you were pulling my leg," he charged as they strode across the street through the splattering rain, the rising wind buffeting them. Lightning flickered in the clouds and thunder rumbled a low menacing growl.

Jim paused and, turning in a slow circle, he studied the sky. Though it was still clear just to the east, a high, wide bank of angry dark clouds driven by the west wind towered high into the heavens. More lightning pulsed and reflected in their depths, and another warning grumble trembled in the distance. Squinting, studying the horizon, his expression tightened.

"What?" Blair asked, following his gaze. "You think the storm might spawn a tornado?"

"Could be," Jim murmured. "Sure the weather for it, it's been so hot, and that wind is cold. No reason to expect any would hit town, though. It's a big prairie and the wind is pushing fast. This storm'll pass in a few hours, but the wind'll probably do some minor damage."

They hurried the rest of the way and, as they reached the door, it was pulled open from inside. Gratefully, they stepped in out of the wind. Hannah didn't say a word, just grabbed Blair, wet slicker and all, in a hard, tight hug.

"Oh, hey," he exclaimed, startled. "You'll get your clothes wet!"

"Ah don' care," she replied and kissed both his cheeks before releasing him. "Ah t'ank you, Blair, from the bottom of ma heart. Ah will t'ank you all the days of ma life."

"So will I," Henri stated as he looped an arm around Blair's shoulders and then, as if he couldn't help himself, pulled him into a strong embrace. "We won't never forget, Blair. Never."

Flustered by their effusive gratitude, Blair blushed. "I'm just glad she's okay," he mumbled in confusion.

The two girls chased into the kitchen, shouting to one another that they were going to be late and shrieking excited greetings to Jim and Blair, distracting them all and ending Blair's discomfort. Once Hannah was sure their hats were tied on tight and their jackets were buttoned, they were ready to go. When Henri opened the door, the wind howled inside, having grown in power in just those few minutes.

"Okay, guess you get to ride today," Blair decided, scooping Cherie into his arms. Rose emphatically protested the idea of being carried, but took a good firm grip on Jim's hand.

Heads down against the now driving rain, they hastened along the boardwalk as fast as Rose could go. When another gust lifted Rose right off her feet, Jim stooped and picked her up, holding her close. Lightning was flashing nearly continuously, the thunder a ceaseless, throbbing rumble in the heavens. Broken twigs and refuse blew wildly across the open square in front of the deserted construction sites and, as they dashed across the playground, just one group amongst many hurrying to get the children safely to school, the driving pellets of rain turned into a deluge.

"Hurry inside!" Blair directed to the girls over the eerie whine of the wind as they set them down on the low porch. Without a word, they scrambled to join the tide of children rushing through the door to the refuge of the classroom. Mothers scarcely waved at him and Jim before they were scurrying back to their homes, their long skirts whipping around their bodies.

They turned to slog their way back across the yard, already a muddy morass that sucked at their boots. A blinding flare of lightning stabbed, hitting the church's bell tower and an almighty crack of thunder split the air, nearly driving Jim to his knees. Slapping his hands to his ears, he yelled to Blair, "Run! Run for cover!" Blair felt Jim give him a solid shove on the back, driving him forward.

The wind was vicious, rising to a screaming shriek. Rain was pounding down so hard Blair could barely see two feet ahead and the force of the wind staggered him, making it hard to stay on his feet. A frisson of pure energy crackled with blinding light – deafening thunder crashed around him – and he was stunned to find himself blown through the air to pitch hard into the mud. Gasping for breath, disoriented, he numbly looked around and back toward Jim, unconsciously reaching out for a hand up.

Only Jim wasn't beside him. He squinted through the rain and gaped, not understanding at first what he was seeing when he spotted Jim sprawled beside a blackened area of mud. Pushing himself to his feet, he yelled over the wind, "Come on, man!"

But Jim didn't move.

With the beginnings of fear fluttering in his chest, Blair lunged toward him, falling onto his knees beside his unconscious partner. "JIM!" Blair shouted over the storm as he rolled Jim from his side onto his back, wondering if maybe the sudden, unbelievably loud thunder had maybe knocked him out. Blair felt as if his own ears were blocked, the sounds around him muffled.

Jim's features remained lax, unresponsive even to the rain stinging his face. Increasingly worried, Blair felt the pulse point in his throat and felt raw terror claw in his gut. Jim's heartbeat was weak, too, too fast, and wildly erratic. "What the …?" Blair muttered – and then he realized Jim wasn't breathing.

Lightning blasted into a nearby tree, shattering a limb that flew into the air, and thunder raged like a living, rampaging beast.

"Shit!" he cursed, surging to his feet. They couldn't stay on the open ground, and he had to get Jim someplace safe before he could help him. Gripping his unconscious partner by the arm, he levered Jim up and onto his shoulder, and then he stumbled as fast as he could to the closest shelter – the school they had just left. Staggering up onto the low porch, he kicked open the door and hurried inside.

Immediately, he eased Jim down onto his back and loosened the cord around his neck to pull away the hat. "Sheriff Ellison was nearly struck by lightning," he explained hurriedly to Marnie and the children, who were gaping at him. Rain blew in through the open door, but he and Jim were already so drenched and muddy, it scarcely mattered.

"Come on, breathe!" he commanded as he again felt the pulse point, only to find it had grown worse, more erratic, weaker, faster. He pressed down on Jim's chest and repeated the action, to stimulate respirations, but it was as if Jim was frozen. His ashen face was turning blue.

Frantic, Blair bent to blow air into Jim's mouth, desperate to sustain life, to relieve the frantic heart. Again and again, he blew long gusts of his own breath into his partner's body. Closing his eyes as he breathed for both of them, he called out to the spirits to hear him, to help him. In his mind, he could see the blue forest, the black cat lying stiff on the grass and the wolf whining helplessly.

"Damn it," he rasped and then blew into Jim's mouth again.

 _Don't do this, don't do this!_ he prayed in a frenzy of fear. _Don't you dare leave me! Dammit, Jim! Don't go!_

He wasn't aware of the silence that reigned in the over-crowded classroom, was equally oblivious to the howl of the wind and driving rain. Seconds sped into minutes, but the minutes seemed to drag as he worked over Jim. It wasn't working, just not working. Jim wasn't responding. Another fast check of his heart rate showed he was in severe distress and failing … dying.

"NO!" Blair yelled with furious denial as he slapped the palm of one hand down on Jim's chest and pressed the other over Jim's forehead. Closing his eyes, he focused his will upon healing, his entire being pouring life and energy, power, into Jim's body.

One second … two – Jim's body jerked under his hands – another second, and Jim was heaving, gasping for breath.

Awash with relief, unshed tears scalding his eyes, Blair pulled his partner up to lean against his chest. "Easy, easy," he crooned as he stroked Jim's back. "You're alright now. You're okay."

"I told you he's a witch," a youth piped. "My Dad says he's evil. A monster."

"That's not true!" Cherie shouted. "Take it back!"

"Hush!" Marnie commanded. "Both of you!"

Blinking at the exchange, Blair looked at the youth who condemned him. The lanky kid was tow-headed and pimply with adolescence, and the expression on his face was defiant.

"You're a demon," he sneered, "an' you belong in Hell."

"Make him stop!" Rose hissed at the teacher. "He's sayin' awful lies. Doc's … Doc's a good man."

"What would you know?" the youth snarled, turning on her. "You're nothin' but trash."

"That's enough," Blair snapped, his command cold with authority as it whipped across the room. "You're talking nonsense and you're only showing what a foolish child you are."

"You're the Devil's spawn!" the boy shouted. "Evil, that's what you are! My Dad says you cursed him!"

"You really believe that?" Blair asked, his tone low and his gaze hard.

"Yeah. My Dad said so."

"Then you should be careful, boy. Because you might make me angry – and it's stupid to get a demon riled. I might turn you into a frog," Blair advised, his tone cold. The youth paled and backed away, and Blair was immediately sorry for terrorizing the ignorant whelp. "Lucky for you, I'm not a demon. I'm just a man, a doctor who knows how to help people who've been hurt or are sick," he went on mildly. His gaze swept the other children, many of whom he'd known for years and quite a few of whom he'd saved from the diphtheria when he'd first arrived. Smiling at them, he asked, "You all know I'm the Doctor, right? You know I'd never hurt anyone."

"Yeah," many of them answered, some with smiles, some with disparaging looks at the new kids. One said emphatically, "You make people better when they're sick. You made me better when I could hardly breathe. Rose is right. You're good, not bad." Turning to the kid who said otherwise, the boy went on with stubborn determination, "An' Rose is _not_ trash. Doc's right. You're a foolish boy and stupid, too."

"No more insults!" Marnie chided. "All of you sit down and be quiet."

Blair nodded in agreement, and turned his attention back to Jim, who was moaning softly as he struggled back to consciousness. Marnie rushed over and pushed the door closed to shut out the wind and rain. But for the flames flickering in the lanterns, the drafty room was dark and shadowed in the unnatural grim dimness of the day.

"Sorry to burst in on you, Marnie," he murmured as he studied Jim, noting that his color was improving.

"Don't you worry none about that," she assured him, and dropped down beside him. "Is the Sheriff going to be alright?"

"Yeah, I think so," Blair replied, sounding as calm as he could manage. "I think the bolt of lightning must've come awful close to hitting him, and really knocked the wind out of him. He's breathing okay, now, though. Should wake up soon and then we'll get out of your way."

"No rush," she said with a light, reassuring touch on his shoulder. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Could I have a mug of water?"

"Sure thing," she agreed with alacrity and rose to go to the water barrel in the corner. She filled a small clay cup and brought it back to him.

Taking it, he held it to Jim's lips and tipped it just enough to get a slow trickle, and then stopped, to see if Jim could swallow and if the small drink would rouse him.

"Jim?" he called quietly. "Can you hear me?"

Jim coughed and blinked. Gazing around, he seemed dazed. "What happened?" he asked with a confused frown.

"You nearly got fried by lightning," Blair told him with a small, relieved chuckle to see his partner awake and alert. "Think you can stand?"

Jim's frown deepened and he rubbed at one ear. "Can hardly hear you," he complained.

"Yeah, well, the thunder was so loud it nearly deafened me, too. Don't worry; the effect will wear off in a while."

"Huh," Jim grunted as he struggled to his feet. Blair gripped one arm to steady him and watched closely to see if he'd remain upright. Jim swayed and grabbed his shoulder, but didn't look like he was going to fall over. "Bit dizzy," he muttered, peering at Blair uncertainly.

"I'm not surprised," Blair replied reassuringly. "Okay, if you think you can handle the storm, we should be on our way." Gesturing toward the door, he asked, "Think you can walk?"

"Uh, sure," Jim said, though he didn't sound entirely certain.

"We'll take it slow," Blair assured him as he took Jim's hat from Marnie and secured it on Jim's head.

"You sure it's safe out there?" she asked, jumping when another crack of thunder shook the building, and the wind rose to a wild roar.

"We'll give it a shot," he said. "If it's too bad, we'll scoot back in here."

Nodding, she opened the door, having to lean her weight against it to keep the wind from banging it out of her grip.

Blair put his arm around Jim's waist and Jim looped an arm around his shoulders; they stepped out onto the porch, their heads bowed against the wild weather. Blair looked up at the clouds looming over them, and squinted through the rain. Though the storm was still bad, visibility had improved. As Marnie pushed the door closed behind them, he helped Jim navigate the two steps down to the ground.

With slow determination, they slogged through the mud until they reached the boardwalk across from the construction site. Once they were under the awning and sheltered by the buildings from the wind, the going was easier. They were just passing the Sheriff's Office, when Jim clutched his shoulders and pushed him toward the door.

"We've got to get inside NOW!" he insisted with raw urgency.

Blair fumbled for the doorknob and shouldered the portal open. They'd just gotten inside when he heard a loud rushing roar, like a train racing toward them, getting closer and closer. Slamming the door shut, Jim shoved him toward the desk. "Get down underneath it!" he urged.

Even as they scrambled for shelter, the whole building began to shake. The blasting roar of the wind grew until they were both covering their ears against the overwhelming sound, curled in close to one another on the floor.

They heard crashes and bangs, the snapping and cracking of tortured wood.

And then the torturous volume of the angry wind began to ease, the roar subsiding into an eerie howl.

"My God," Blair breathed as he crawled out from under the desk and stood. Giving Jim a hand up, he asked, "What the hell was that?"

"Tornado, damned close," Jim said as he paced toward the door. His gait was firmer and he seemed steadier on his feet. "We better check for damage, and see if anyone was hurt."

"You sure you're okay?" Blair challenged, grabbing his arm to stay him and check his eyes.

"I'm fine," Jim insisted, shaking him off.

Blair snorted, seriously doubting Jim was up to full speed, but didn't bother to correct him. The Sheriff was clearly improved enough to be irritable, and there were more urgent matters at hand.

Outside, the wind still lashed rain like a whip. Across the street, Brown came out of his stable; bowed against the elements, he ran across to meet them. The other way, toward the center of town, they saw Maisie poke her head out and wave that she was alright.

"Man, that was close!" Henri called as he joined them.

Jim squinted at him and rubbed his ears, but didn't say anything. Together, they made their way back along the boardwalk. The hotel looked intact but for a balcony hanging precariously in one corner. Ambrose came out of his shop, his expression disgusted as he looked up toward the roof.

"Lost some shingles," he reported. "Ceiling's leaking."

Jim tilted his head as he listened, then nodded and they carried on. Sam and Clive Tucker left the bank. While Clive hurried off to check on his house and family, Sam locked up and reported, "Bank's fine. Solid as a rock." But his tone was anxious as he joined them to hurry toward the residential end of town, "Hope the family are okay."

The general store seemed to have weathered the blast with no obvious damage and Angus waved them past. Up ahead, they could see the awnings over the boardwalk had both ripped away, leaving splintered wood scattered everywhere.

The men were most worried about the school as they rushed around the corner, but they slowed when they saw it was intact. The roof might need some repair, but the structure seemed sound. Only then did Brown glance toward the construction. "Lord, look at that!"

Blair followed Henri's gaping gaze and blinked at the damage that had been wrought. The partially-erected buildings were gone, the wooden frames ripped away to be strewn across the prairie. Had the workers come in that morning, a good number of them might well have been badly hurt or killed.

Sam grunted and hurried on, the others behind him. The church's belltower canted to one side, and a number of houses seemed to have lost a section of roofing, but that was the extent of the damage they found. No one appeared to have been injured, although a number of folks were exhibiting signs of shock. Blair quickly got them focused on making themselves hot tea with honey, his calm, reassuring tones catching their dazed attention and soothing their fears.

An hour later, they were heading back to their end of town when they saw Pastor Stevens fighting his way through the wind and rain toward them.

"Anyone hurt?" he asked in his booming voice, panting for breath. "Anyone need help or shelter."

"No sir," Brown told him. "We got lucky – just some structural damage and not much of that, except," he continued with a wave across the street, "Kincaid got hit hard."

"Lucky?" the Pastor snorted, and a small, wicked grin played around his lips. "Some call tornadoes the finger of God. Some might say yonder destruction is a judgment."

Jim barked a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. "I like the way you think, Padre, I really do," he chuckled. "But I doubt Kincaid will see it that way."

"Probably say it was the curse," Blair laughed, relieved that everyone was fine, though he was aware the laughter was, in part, his own way of distancing the disturbing charges leveled at him by the boy that morning.

"Curse?" the reverend echoed in perplexity.

"Doc here yelled at the riders that nearly killed my girl yesterday afternoon," Henri explained with a grin. "Chased them off out of town."

"I heard about that," Stevens replied. "Is young Cherie all right?"

"Right as rain," Brown told him with a bemused glance at the streaming sky. "Thanks to Doc, she's just fine."

"One of the kids in the schoolhouse said something about it," Blair interjected, to steer the conversation away from Cherie and his role in her recovery. "Guess his father was trying to scare him, you know? To get a rise out of him."

Jim gave him a quizzical searching look. "I must've missed that part."

Not wanting to get into it, and beginning to wish he hadn't said anything, Blair shrugged. "Just fanciful nonsense," he said, waving it off, though the boy's words still chilled him.

"Well, if everyone's fine, we'd best get out of this rain," Pastor Stevens gusted, turning to the Church.

In firm agreement, anxious to get into warm, dry clothes, the three lawmen jogged back to the far end of town.


	2. Chapter 2

Inside, they pushed the door closed against the wind, and shrugged off their dripping slickers to hang on hooks in the hall with their wet hats.

"Jim," Blair asked, his face turned away and his voice deliberately pitched low and soft, "how much can you hear?"

Jim didn't answer. Instead, he carried on into the kitchen to stoke the stove and put on a fresh pot of coffee. Shaking his head, Blair followed him. Once Jim was finished, he touched his partner's arm to get his attention.

"Jim, can you hear me?" he whispered.

"What?"

Sighing, Blair raised his voice. "Can you hear me now?"

Grimacing, Jim rubbed the sides of his face, just in front of his ears. "Guess you caught me," he replied, though that still didn't answer the question.

Practically shouting, Blair asked, "How high is your hearing set?"

"Uh, got the lantern burning full blast, Chief," he finally admitted, grudgingly. "Can't hardly hear a damned thing."

Gesturing at Jim to follow him, Blair led the way to his office where he examined Jim's ears. Afterward, he sat down and scribbled out a note, _'Your eardrums look okay, but I think your hearing got overloaded by the loud thunder – I know it nearly deafened me. And this may also be a residual effect of nearly being struck by lightning this morning. Turn the bronze lantern down to a normal level and let your sense of hearing rest. Don't push it, okay? I think in a few hours, you'll be fine.'_

Jim glanced at the note, his brows furrowing as he read. "I was nearly hit by lightning?"

Though he wondered if it had been more than a near-miss, if Jim had actually been struck, Blair nodded and jotted, _'Knocked you out for a few minutes, but you're okay now.'_

"You think my hearing will come back, right?" Jim probed, anxious shadows in his eyes.

Nodding reassuringly, Blair wrote, _'Yeah. My hearing is still a bit off, too. Yours is more sensitive, so it makes sense it will take a little longer to improve. I think you should lie down for a few hours, give your body a chance to bounce back. Keep the lantern turned down; don't strain to hear, at least not yet.'_

"Okay, Chief," Jim sighed. "You're the doctor. I'll just have a cup of coffee to warm up, and go upstairs. Have to admit, I feel, I don't know, just tired, I guess."

Thinking about how Jim had very nearly died that morning, Blair gave him a wan smile as he nodded in understanding. Waving Jim back to the kitchen, he pushed himself to his feet to follow. His partner wasn't the only one who felt 'tired'. Blair couldn't be more 'tired' if he'd run to Wichita and back. Between what he'd done to revive Cherie the evening before and investing Jim with enough healing energy to breathe, let alone to get back on his feet and chase around town for the last two hours, Blair knew he was just about done in. Jim had helped him immeasurably the night before – it was the only reason, really, that he could even function – but he couldn't ask Jim for more, not until he'd fully recovered from his own injuries.

While they sipped their coffee in companionable silence, Blair continued to ponder the mystery of energy – where it came from, how they shared it, replenished it – and he wondered if he was doing something wrong. Maybe more than one thing wrong. For starters, he didn't think he should be so completely enervated by doing what, he assumed anyway, was what shamans did. Was he missing something? Maybe not drawing on the help of his spirit guide enough? Never before had he felt the pervasive weakness, that odd sense of being less, insubstantial, that he'd experienced after healing Cherie. But then, he'd never reached so far before, either. Jim had. Jim had brought him back from the dead, but nobody had said anything about Jim just about fading away afterward. But then, from what he understood, Jim had drawn upon the power of the spirit guides. Blair wasn't conscious of ever having done that. So … was he trying to do too much alone? Maybe.

Or maybe he was just trying to do too much, period. Until the last little more than a month, he'd only had his skill and knowledge as a doctor to draw upon. Sure, he might unwittingly also have been using some greater force without realizing it, but that wasn't the same, was it, as drawing upon that force on a regular basis? Was he relying too heavily and too quickly upon what felt like magic? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was he abusing his new abilities, using them almost arrogantly, simply because he knew he could? And was he abusing Jim's ability and willingness to help him recoup afterward?

He didn't know, and the questions weren't helping him to feel any better. God, he was absolutely exhausted. That kid's words haunted and troubled him a great deal. Not that he thought there was anything inherently evil in trying to help people, in doing his best and using all the resources available to him to heal. He was comfortable, more than comfortable, in accepting that there was a great deal so-called civilized society didn't know about what was possible, that science wasn't the only truth. But…

He was distracted from his thoughts when Jim finished his coffee and stood to put his mug in the wash basin. "I'll see you later," he said, squeezing Blair's shoulder as he left to go upstairs and rest.

Outside, the storm still blew, but Blair thought the rain was tapering off and the wind didn't sound so fierce. Shivering, he wandered down to the infirmary. Lying down on a cot, he huddled under the blanket and closed his eyes.

* * *

The heavy weight of a hand pressed over his mouth wakened Blair hours later, and his eyes widened in startled shock at the sight of a sixgun held close to his face. Holding himself completely still, his gaze flew around and he saw nearly a dozen men, all of them strangers, surrounding the cot and filling the infirmary. He didn't know them, none of them, but some of them looked vaguely familiar.

They were some of the men he'd glared at the evening before; men who had been in the stampeding throng that had trampled Cherie.

Men he'd cursed.

"Get up and keep yer mouth shut, or I'll blow yer head off, y'hear?" the gunman growled.

He nodded carefully, and the hand was removed. Men grabbed him to haul him to his feet. A gag was stuffed in his mouth, and his hands were tied behind him. And then they were hustling him out the back door into the yard where the youth he recognized from the school was holding the horses. The kid sneered at him contemptuously, standing back while two men lifted him onto one of the horses.

In seconds, they were riding into the wind, down along the creek away from town.

The rain had stopped but the wind still had a sharp bite, and pewter clouds hung low, threatening more bad weather. Blair was afraid. Wherever they were taking him, whatever was they had planned, he knew he was in trouble. Glancing back over his shoulder at his home, he wondered if Jim had heard anything, but there was no movement at the upper window. His heart sinking, he feared Jim's hearing was still a problem, and that no one knew he'd been taken. Maybe no one would ever know what happened to him.

He was on his own and he was certain he was going to die.

They rode for nearly fifteen minutes, then drew up on a wide grassy bank sheltered from any passing eyes by a thick line of trees. Blair swallowed hard when he saw Kincaid was already there, waiting.

He was pulled from the saddle and shoved forward to stand before the southerner.

"Well, now, we finally meet," Kincaid drawled, gesturing with his head at the man behind Blair to remove the gag. "You curse us again and we'll shoot you where you stand."

"What do you want?" Blair asked, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

Kincaid gave him a cynical smile that did nothing to warm the icy blue eyes. "You're going on trial, Sandburg, for being a witch, or maybe a demon."

Rolling his eyes, Blair expostulated, "You've got to be kidding. A witch? Give me a break. I'm a doctor, that's all."

"A doctor that brings dead things back to life? Few doctors have such skill," Kincaid sneered.

"You're talking about Cherie Brown, right?" Blair hastened to explain. He doubted these men cared what he had to say, but he had to try. "The little girl your men ran down yesterday? She wasn't dead. She was clipped by a horse and knocked out for a bit, that's all."

Kincaid snorted but, before he could speak, the youth blurted, "I saw you bring the Sheriff back to life this morning. You can't deny it! He wasn't breathing!"

Taking a breath, determined to remain as calm as he could, Blair allowed, "No, he wasn't. He'd nearly been killed by lightning and his body was in shock. But his heart was still beating. He wasn't dead. I just had to get his lungs moving. That's why I was blowing air into his mouth and pumping on his chest. It didn't take long for him to start breathing and he was fine – you saw that for yourself."

"You threatened to turn me into a frog!" the youth screamed.

Kincaid raised his hand to end the discussion. "This trial isn't about bantering words and giving plausible explanations to obscure reality," he revealed with a cold smile. "This is a test of God's will and mercy, to determine whether you're worthy of such blessing – or whether you should be consigned to the Devil."

Blair's throat went dry and he glanced at the river. He'd heard of such ancient tests. If he was bound hand and foot, thrown in, and sank rather than managed to float or swim, they'd let him drown. Some tests included being weighted down by a large stone just to make things more challenging. If he didn't panic, if they didn't tie him to a rock, he was sure, even bound, that he could float on his back. But he'd have to stay calm and not thrash around when they tossed him in.

Kincaid's chuckle drew his attention back. "No, no, we're not going to see if you know how to swim," he clarified. Turning slightly, he waved at a stake behind him, around which was piled stacks of wood. "We're going to see if you can survive fire."

Horrified, Blair gasped. "Fire? You're insane!" he exclaimed, furious and desperately not wanting to die, especially not like that. "All of you. Crazy murderers. All you want is to destroy anyone who isn't like you, who doesn't agree with you. You won't get away with this!"

"Gag him before he curses us again," Kincaid ordered, sounding amused. "And blindfold him, just in case he can turn people into frogs with a glance."

Blair struggled and kicked in desperation, but he knew it was hopeless. There were too many of them. There would be no escape. Men held him while the gag was thrust back into his mouth and tied tightly behind his head. Just before he was blindfolded, he saw Kincaid mount up and turn his horse toward town. "God's mercy upon you, Sandburg," he called sarcastically. "And maybe I'll see you again."

They dragged Blair to the stake and, winding rope around his body, bound him to it. Panting raggedly, he heard them toss more wood around him, and then he heard and smelled them pouring kerosene on the rough hewn logs. He grunted in protest, unable to believe they could be so indifferently cruel, but they laughed at him, joked about watching him burn and blacken into a shriveled vestige of a man. Stones struck his body and grazed his face, gratuitous punishment and pain inflicted for the joy of doing so, for how much more could they hurt him than to immolate him?

Sick with fear, dazed by the heavy blows to his head and body, he heaved against the ropes in a helpless refusal to die without protest, but froze when he heard a match strike.

"Let me torch it!" he heard the youth beg, his voice salacious with ugly desire.

Revolted, Blair shook his head helplessly. How could they allow a child to kill? "Nuh dun," he grunted in despairing protest, the gag garbling his words. He couldn't see, could only hear, and he heard a whoosh of flame, felt a sudden searing heat. There would be no mercy shown. The youth was as eager to destroy as were the men he emulated.

Fury filled him at his impotent helplessness; rage consumed him, blind rage, at the callous indifference, the malicious cruelty. Nor would he be the only victim – probably wasn't even the first they had killed. They took too much joy in it, too much satisfaction. How many more would die at their hands?

And they called him evil?

Smoke stung his nostrils, choking him, and the heat became oppressive, stifling, until he had to struggle to breathe at all. His futile anger built in his chest. Jim. They'd probably go after Jim next because he was all that really stood in their way. And then it would be Henri and his family. And Simon and Joel. And maybe Megan, and even Maisie, for daring to face the world alone, without dependence upon any man. How many would die like this, in horror and despair, tortured by fire? Or maybe just shot or bludgeoned in the dark?

"NUHHHH!" he screamed through the gag, enraged beyond reason, beyond hope, furious to be the sacrificial victim to ignorance, greed and a cynical need for power over others. He struggled with futile impotence against the ropes that bound him, utterly enraged that these murderers acted without conscience, laughing at his death – killers who would go on killing again and again, not only in this generation but in those to come, for they taught their children to kill.

Overcome with his inability to act, to save himself or anyone else, lost in his rage, he screamed again and tears leaked from his eyes to stain the bandana that blinded him. These men who surrounded him like jackals knew nothing of compassion or kindness, knew nothing but hate and envy. And he could not stop them. Could not … could not … he hated them, hated them for what they were doing to him and what they'd done to others, and what they would do in the future; despised them as he'd rarely detested any human being, any _thing_ in creation. They were a sickness, a blight that twisted and perverted and destroyed without mercy or regret. In the midst of his defiant, passionate scream of rage, he heard a wolf howl – a call to the hunt – and a cat snarled in warning. The wind picked up, blowing strands of his hair across his face, fanning it out around his head. Overhead, thunder cracked like cannon, and growled loud and long like a furious, marauding beast. A mighty gust of wind whirled around him, sucking the air and smoke from his lungs. A sudden rushing filled his ears, a whooshing as heat built high and surrounded him and yet … and yet the flames did not touch him.

The laughter around him faltered, turned into screams, hideous screams of horror and unbearable pain. Rain burst upon him, drenching him, and the screaming died away into eerie, high-pitched whimpers until those piteous sounds were drowned in another rumble of thunder.

When the thunder faded, the rushing wind dropped and he was left in silence. The stench of burned flesh filled his nostrils, sickening him – and only then did he realize the inescapable truth of what he had done.

Shocked to his soul, his chest grew so tight with shock and inexpressible guilt, he couldn't catch his breath.

He'd _killed_ all those men. Murdered in furious, blind, limitless rage…

God, he'd destroyed a _child!_

_No, please, I didn't … I couldn't … how …_

_What am I? What have I become?_

_Oh God, oh God, forgive me. Forgive me. I … I …_

Oh, God, he _was_ a monster….

Chaos spun in his mind, a frenzy of horror; nausea roiled and twisted in his gut, and a keening wail burst from his raw throat. Ravaged by emotion, unable to bear his guilt, panting fast and shallow, his strength and energy spent, awareness faded and darkness swept over him.

* * *

Sharp rapping on the door roused him but, certain Blair would answer, he just rolled over. But then he heard a woman call, "Doc? Sheriff? It's Marnie! Anyone here? Doc?"

 _Marnie?_ Concerned something had happened to the children, Jim shouted, "I'll be right there," and rolled to his feet. Hurrying down the stairs, he wondered where Blair was.

"Marnie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, well," she stammered in confusion.

Curbing his impatience, he waited for the shy woman to sort out her thoughts.

"That is, nothing is wrong now," she began to explain. "I wanted to let you know I let school out early. The weather looks like it might get bad again, and I thought they'd be better at home with their parents, and some of the settlers came in to collect their children. Anyway, I walked the Brown children home," she said in a breathless rush.

"Oh, well, uh, thanks for letting me know," he replied, a bit confused as to why such sensible actions seemed to make her so nervous.

She wrung her hands and went on, "And, and I was hoping Doc would be here. So I could apologize for what that horrible Walters boy said. Imagine anyone calling the Doc a demon and telling him he's evil?" Marnie shook her head, obviously still incensed. "I wanted Doc to know that I told his father when he came to collect him, that the boy is expelled until he apologizes both to Doc and to Rose, for calling her trash."

"You said this kid called Doc a demon?" Jim clarified, anger building in his chest.

"Yes, it was dreadful," she replied. "There Doc was, doing his best to get you breathing again, and I could tell he was scared, and this brat starts accusing him of these awful things, like cursing his father. Well, it won't happen again. In fact, Mr. Walters said very definitely that there'd be no more trouble about the Doc. Would you … would you tell Doc for me that I'm sorry and that it won't ever happen again, not in my school?"

Distracted by what she'd told him, Jim nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks." What the hell had happened that morning? What did she mean that he hadn't been breathing and Blair had been scared? And … what did Walters mean that there'd be no more trouble? Those people lived to make trouble.

And where the hell was Sandburg?

As politely as possible, he hastened Marnie out the door. Just as she was leaving, he saw Kincaid ride by, heading toward the center of town. And he heard hoofbeats approaching town – a lot of them. Frowning, he whirled around to check the house, looking for any sign of his partner or any indication of where Blair had gone. He found the rumpled cot.

_I wasn't breathing?_

Jesus. Had Blair pulled another one of his magic healing stunts? He didn't have the energy left for that.

His jaw tightening, Jim looked around and saw the door to the back wasn't completely closed. Moving across the room, he sniffed the air, scenting traces of other men. Out in the yard, he saw the muddy ground had been churned up by at least a dozen horses.

Alarm erupted into fear. What had happened? Why hadn't he heard anything?

His damned hearing…

"Jim!" he heard Simon's voice call from inside.

"Out back," he yelled. Studying the tracks, he saw they had ridden fast along the creek, away from town.

"Jim, sorry it took us a while to get into town," Simon was saying as he came through the door. "That storm this morning wreaked havoc on the ranch." But he must've read something in Jim's face, because he stilled and his face clouded. "What's wrong?"

Jim held up a hand to stave off more questions as he tried to piece things together. He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but it sure looked like they'd taken Sandburg. Where had Kincaid been riding in from? Jim was turning to Simon when he inhaled deeply to scent the wind for any clues – and he gagged at the sweet, sickly stench of roasted flesh. Whipping around, panting with sick dread, he stared into the wind.

"They've got Sandburg," he gusted, and then broke for the stable to saddle Lobo. "Get H! Tell your men to follow me!"

Simon frowned in concern, but he disappeared into the house.

Jim had barely finished saddling up when Brown, Simon and the Gold Ribbon riders cantered around the corner of the house. Swinging onto Lobo's back, Jim led them in a racing gallop along the creek.

The stench he smelled sickened him; bile burned in his throat. He didn't want to think about what they'd find, but he couldn't stop worrying that the bastards had burned Blair. _I'll kill them. I'll fucking kill them all if they've hurt him._

The further they rode, the thicker the air grew with the nauseating stench until he heard men behind him exclaiming, wondering what the hell it was and what they were riding into. He glanced back at Simon and Henri, and he could tell from their anxious, furious expressions that they were afraid they knew. Just like he was afraid. Just like he was enraged nearly beyond reason.

But when they burst onto the meadow, they all drew up in appalled, shocked silence at what they saw: twisted, blackened corpses scattered on the still green grass – and Sandburg tied to a post; slumped, unmoving, surrounded by burned, still steaming faggots of wood.

"Christ," Jim breathed and urged Lobo closer. Slipping off his mount, swallowing heavily against the urge to vomit, he stared at Blair, trying to discern if he was alive or…

"Sandburg?" he rasped, his voice hoarse, as he drew closer. His gaze narrowed and he shook his head, trying to clear the roar of his own blood from his ears. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he felt Blair's face and gently raised his head. "Blair?"

Simon came up behind him and circled around to untie the blindfold and gag, while Brown appeared, to work on the ropes with his Bowie knife.

"He alive?" Simon asked with low trepidation.

"Yeah," Jim told him. "But he's out cold. Don't know how much smoke he inhaled."

"What do you think happened here?" Simon asked then, his gaze going past Jim to the corpses behind him.

"Justice," Jim replied with stark, blunt certitude. He braced Blair as the ropes loosened and fell away.

"Well, I'd agree with you there, just on general principle," Simon said wryly. "But … how?"

Jim ignored the question as he lifted Blair and carried him from the pyre.

"Jim?" Simon called, pressing for an answer.

"Not now," he returned over his shoulder. "We need to get him home."

"And the rest of them?"

"They're not going anywhere. Kincaid can come to collect his dead – or leave them to rot, for all I care."

As he supported Blair and then lifted him up to Jim, Simon observed for Jim's ears only, "One of them was either a real small man or …"

"Yeah, I saw that, too," Jim snapped, not wanting to think about it. Whatever had happened there, however it happened, it was all too obvious who had been bound at the stake, surrounded by fire. Cold with loathing for what they'd intended to do, he couldn't find it in him to feel grief for _anyone_ who had so clearly meant to burn Sandburg alive, only to find the flames devouring them instead.

Holding fast to his unconscious partner, Jim wheeled Lobo around to lead the way back to Bitterwood Creek.

* * *

Blair started to revive just as they approached the edge of town. Confused, jerking in fear, he didn't seem to understand what was going on. Jim held him securely against his chest, and murmured, "Easy, Chief. You're okay. We're nearly home." He was relieved when Blair nodded and relaxed against him.

When they drew up in front of the house, there was a small crowd gathered, mostly people who were alarmed to know the men had ridden out so suddenly, hell bent for leather. But Kincaid and McBride were there, too. Jim took considerable pleasure in seeing their complacent, smug expressions shift into confusion when they saw that Blair was still whole and apparently alive.

"What happened?" Sam Sloan demanded, his eyes widening at the sight and smell of Blair's singed clothing and smoked-streaked skin.

"Is he alright?" Megan and Maisie called, sounding scared.

Holding Blair steady, Jim slid down to the ground, and then eased Blair down beside him. "I c'n walk," Blair insisted hoarsely. "With a little help," he added, a wan grin splitting his soot-smudged face.

Kincaid and McBride were blocking the door, too pressed in by the crowd to be able to slip away unnoticed. Appearing to be determined to brazen it out, they stared hard at Sandburg as he and Jim climbed up onto the boardwalk. "What happened, Sheriff?" Kincaid asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Blair stumbled when he heard the voice, and stalled. And then he slowly lifted his head, his expression empty. "Guess you could say God showed mercy – to me, anyway," he rasped without inflection, swaying so dizzily Jim was afraid he was going to collapse. "Though I could wish I'd never have to see you again."

Blair lifted his haunted gaze to Jim's. "Kincaid was there," he said, his voice thin with effort. "He … he ordered it."

"Now, look here," Kincaid blustered. "I don't know what the fool is talkin' about."

"Shut up," Jim snarled. Jerking his head toward Kincaid, he told Simon and Henri, "Lock him up."

McBride slid his hand toward his six-gun, but Rafe, still in his saddle, cocked his pistol and advised, "Was I you, I wouldn't."

"Jim?" Blair whispered, sounding lost, and his knees buckled.

Jim caught him and shifted to pick him up. Giving Kincaid a hard look, he said coldly, "Guess things didn't turn out the way you expected, huh? They're dead, Kincaid. All of them." Glancing at Simon, he growled, "Get him the hell out of here before I do something I wouldn't regret."

* * *

Blair woke slowly, at first only aware that he was at home, in bed, and that it was night, the darkness relieved only by the thin flame of a lantern on the table by the bed. He felt the bed sag, and then the touch of Jim's hand on his brow.

He hesitated, not wanting to meet Jim's eyes, but he had to, had to face what he'd done. When he looked up and only saw concern, his gaze darted away. "I killed them," he said, feeling dull and empty. "All of them. Even one that was little more than a kid."

"Sandburg, you were tied to a post, gagged and blindfolded," Jim countered, his voice soft, so gentle. "You didn't light that fire. They killed themselves."

Blair swallowed convulsively and shook his head. "You don't … don't understand. I hated them. I … I, I lost control. I heard the wolf and the cat. And then the storm crashed and the wind … was like a hurricane. I did that. I … I destroyed them all."

"Easy, Chief," Jim soothed. "You can't know that. You can't know it wasn't some freak of nature – maybe even the finger of God."

Blair forced himself to meet Jim's eyes. "I _know_ ," he asserted. "I did it. I … I don't know exactly how, but I did it."

"Okay, even if you did, that's called 'self-defense'. They were trying to burn you alive, Blair! They deserved what happened to them."

Blair shook his head. "I heard them … dying. Nobody," his voice caught, "nobody deserves to die like that."

"No?" Jim disagreed, anger resonating in his voice. "Me? I call it justice."

Blair's gaze dropped and he tightened his jaw against the urge to argue. What did it matter? They'd all still be dead. "I'm scared," he whispered. "Scared of what's happening to me. What I'm turning into."

Jim sighed and then stretched out beside him, gathering him into a strong embrace. "You're not turning into anything, Chief," he murmured into Blair's hair. "But you are alive, and I thank God for that."

A lump thickened in Blair's throat and his eyes burned and blurred. "I didn't want … I…" he stammered, but was too choked to speak.

"Shh," Jim whispered, stroking his back and holding him while he fought and lost the battle to hold his pain inside. "Let it out, buddy. Let it all out."

* * *

Simon and Henri were in the kitchen, minding the casserole and fresh bread Maisie had brought over an hour before. Sipping coffee, they stared at the floor, still shaken by what they'd seen and trying to understand it.

Jim found them there after Blair had fallen into exhausted sleep. Sighing, he poured himself a mug of coffee and rubbed the back of his neck.

"How is he?" Henri asked, worry darkening his eyes.

"Badly shaken," Jim replied. "Blames himself."

"What?" Simon exclaimed. "But that's crazy! He couldn't have done … he was tied…"

Evading his gaze, Jim raised the mug and swallowed cautiously. When he glanced at Henri, his deputy met his eyes briefly before looking away. "From all we could see," Brown ventured, "looked like a freak wind blew the flames back on them. And then rain put the fires out."

"Yeah, that's what it looks like, alright," Jim agreed guardedly.

Simon's gaze swept from one to the other. "What aren't you two sayin'?" he asked.

Letting out a long breath, Jim pulled a chair around and straddled it. Crossing his arms along the back support, he bit his lip and then said, "When we were at the reservation, a lot of things happened." Scarcely knowing where to start, he hesitated. "Blair was … was killed. Shot off a cliff and he … drowned."

The other two men gaped at him, speechless.

"Yeah, I know. Sounds impossible. The Indians…" He tossed up a hand and, tight with tension, he got up to pace. "This being a sentinel – I have more than just good senses. I can … commune, I guess … with our spirit guides. Animals only Blair and I and other sentinels and shamans can see. They helped me bring him back to life."

"My God," Simon breathed.

"Yeah," Jim nodded, his throat dry. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, his gaze fixed on the floor, he went on, "Turns out, Blair has powers, too. He's more than a guide, someone who helps me, grounds me. He's a shaman, a medicine man. He has more than the knowledge and skill to heal. He has a gift. He can share health through touch by giving some of his energy to the one who is sick or hurt."

"He can do more than heal," Henri offered solemnly. "He can raise the dead."

Simon stared at him. "How do you know that?"

"Because just yesterday, Kincaid's men stampeded over my girl, Cherie. Broke her neck. She was dead, Simon. Blair brought her back to us."

His lips parted in shock, Simon looked to Jim, who nodded confirmation.

"Well, I'll be," Simon murmured as he rubbed his mouth. "I've heard old stories about healers. Never really believed them."

"He has other powers," Jim said quietly. "He can … he can call up fire."

"You mean he deliberately –"

"I don't think it was deliberate. In fact, I'm sure it wasn't. I think … I think his rage and his helplessness overwhelmed him. I think he struck back in self-defense without being fully aware of what was happening," Jim interjected. "He was bound, gagged and blind-folded. The pyre had obviously been lit. I could smell the kerosene that permeated the wood and the ground around him. He said … he said he heard our spirit guides and then the winds came and the storm. By the time he realized he'd called up more power than he knew he had, they were dead."

Glancing at the hall and the stairway beyond, he grated, "He's sick about what he did."

"I don't think they gave him much choice," Simon observed pragmatically. "They were burning him alive. Any man would fight back, if he could. If he had the means."

Jim nodded. "But most men don't have the means. He thinks he's … he's afraid he's turning into something evil."

"Oh, c'mon! That's just damn foolishness!" Henri protested. "Doc? Why that man nearly kills himself to help other people. When I came in here last night and saw what helping Cherie had cost him – man, he looked like he was dying himself. Evil? Not hardly."

Jim gave him a spare but sincere smile, more grateful than Brown would ever know for the words and the sentiment behind them. "I agree, H. But I'm not sure it'll be easy to convince him of that." Dropping onto the chair, he set his mug on the table. "The man's not a killer. He does everything he can to avoid violence. We all know he's killed when he's had no choice, but it eats at him. And this – hell, one of the men, Walters, had his boy with him. Kid was only fourteen."

"A boy of fourteen knows what's right and wrong," Simon intoned. "He wouldn'a been there if he thought what was happening was wrong."

Jim scrubbed his face. "What's the town sayin'?"

"Well, Henri here floated his rogue wind story and most seem to buy it," Simon replied. "Why wouldn't they? All of us saw that Blair was helpless and unconscious. Hell, his clothing was singed and he was black with smoke."

"The kids might wonder," Brown observed unhappily. Reluctantly, he told Jim, "The girls told us what that Walters boy said at the school. How he claimed Blair had put a curse on those men. That he was a demon, doin' the Devil's work. Some of 'em … 'specially the settlers' kids, well, they're going to believe what Walters said was true."

Jim winced and pressed his lips together. What would Blair do if the children started to fear him?

"An' Kincaid's men will want someone to pay for what happened," Simon added. "God, what a mess."

"I don't know what to do," Jim admitted. "Not about Kincaid's bunch. Let 'em come. We can deal with them. But the rumors?"

"You face it down, is what you do," Simon replied with gruff kindness. "It'll blow over. Hell's bells – the rogue wind story makes a whole lot more sense than that a man tied to a stake can call up fire on his enemies."

"That works for me," Jim told him. "But I'm not sure it'll work for Blair. He knows what really happened, and I don't know how he's going to find peace with it."

Simon shrugged. "He'll have to find a way. What's done can't be undone – and I wouldn't want it to be. The only other way it was going to go was for Blair to die himself. It was self-defense. That's it; that's all."

* * *

A week and a half later, the Circuit Court Judge, Morton C. Stillwater, rode into town with his unlikely escort, an ex-con named Mark McGettrick who, when anyone asked and even if they didn't, steadfastly held to his story that he'd been wrongly sentenced by the Judge some years before for stealing his own horse. Stillwater, a hard man in his sixties, had a shock of gray hair, flinty blue eyes and a pugnacious jaw. McGettrick, a much younger man, had wild curls under his broad-brimmed hat; his smile came easy, but he wore the flint-handled sixguns low on his narrow hips and had a reputation for being fast. Whatever the truth of the story between them, there was no doubt the young gunslinger would protect the Judge with his life.

Jim was glad to see them, having grown heartily sick of Kincaid's whining and bellyaching for company, and he'd be glad to get the man off his hands – not to mention free up the Gold Ribbon riders who had pulled deputy duty to help him make sure the prisoner's friends didn't over-run the jail to set him free. Stepping out on the boardwalk, he tipped his hat as he greeted them. "Judge, Mark, good to see you."

"Got your wire, Sheriff," Stillwater said as he dismounted and rubbed his hands together. "Looks like you've got a meaty case for me this time 'round."

With a grimace, Jim nodded. "Guess you could say that. I'll be glad to see the back of him."

"Well, let's get the ball rolling," the Judge directed, never one for wasting any time. "We'll set up in the saloon. If I convene the court in an hour, that give you enough time to round up men for me to choose a jury?"

"Plenty of time," Jim agreed. "And Judge? Everyone from hereabouts is likely to sit in on this trial."

"Uh huh," Stillwater grunted, his tongue probing his cheek. "Well, so long as they behave themselves and don't try to turn the trial into a circus, we should all get along fine. C'mon, Mark, let's go tell Silas that we'll be ruinin' his business for the next day or so an' get his grumblin' outta the way."

An hour later, the improvised courtroom was packed, with standing room only in the crush around the walls and spilling out the door. Kincaid's men jockeyed for seats on the jury, but the Judge quickly dismissed any volunteers who had lived in the town or its environs for less than six months. Once the jury was arranged in a double row of chairs to one side, the Judge took his place on a stool behind the bar, a gavel in one hand and his sixgun, 'old Betsy', laying conspicuously beside him in case the gavel wasn't enough to maintain order in his Court.

"Sheriff," the Judge commanded, "bring in the prisoner."

When Garrett Kincaid was brought before him, Stillwater looked him up and down, taking in the expensive, well-cut clothing and smartly groomed appearance. "Well, Sheriff, looks like you've taken good care of the prisoner – certainly he doesn't appear any the worse for a sojourn in your jail. Garrett Kincaid, I'm Judge Morton C. Stillwater an' I'll be presiding over your trial for assault, kidnapping, and conspiracy to commit murder. Since there's no lawyer here to advise you, I'll ensure your legal rights are respected. How do you plead to the charge? Guilty or not guilty?"

"Most emphatically _not guilty_ your Honor," Garrett sang out, his tone insolent. "I protest this mockery of a trial."

"You do, do ya? Duly noted. You'll get a chance to tell your story later. Now sit down and be quiet. The Court calls Sheriff James Ellison to the stand. Bailiff, swear the Sheriff in."

Looking amused by the fancy title, McGettrick held a Bible out for Jim to swear his oath to tell the truth, and waved him to a chair by the bar.

"Alright, Sheriff Ellison, explain to me why Mr. Kincaid has been coolin' his heels in your jail," Stillwater suggested with a thin smile.

Jim related the tension that had grown between the new settlers and the townsfolk, and stiffly explained that the newcomers had little respect for any who didn't subscribe to their view of the world and truth, giving examples of what Kincaid had said to him about his deputies upon his arrival back in Bitterwood Creek. He described their wild riding along the street that had nearly resulted in the death of a child and which had occasioned an exchange of words, which he repeated verbatim, between Doctor Sandburg and Kincaid's men, several of whom had died in the clearing by the river the next day. Jim then testified about finding the tracks in the mud outside the back door, and following them to where they'd found Doctor Sandburg bound to the stake, blindfolded, gagged and unconscious, probably from inhaling too much smoke, and surrounded by the corpses of the men and the one youth who had assaulted him and were intending to kill him.

"So, Doctor Sandburg was tied to a stake, surrounded by a still smoking ring of wood and was unconscious," Stillwater clarified, making a note.

"That's right, Your Honor."

"And how does Mr. Kincaid factor in this personally?"

"He was seen riding into town from the direction of the clearing just before we went in search of the Doctor. And when we arrived back in town with Doctor Sandburg, the Doctor reported that Kincaid had been there and had ordered his men to burn Doc Sandburg to death."

"Judge, that's a damned lie!" Kincaid shouted.

"As I've already told you, Mr. Kincaid, you'll have a chance to tell your side of the story. In the meantime, shut up." Turning back to Jim, the Judge went on, "Thank you, Sheriff. I think I've a good idea of the atmosphere of the town and the events leading up to the attempted murder. You may step down. I call Doctor Blair Sandburg to the stand."

Jim was worried about Blair. For the last ten days, he'd been sleeping 'round the clock, and had retreated into himself, eating little and saying scarcely a word. He looked pallid and wasted; his head was bowed as he shuffled toward the bar, his shoulders slumped, like a man who'd been whipped within an inch of his life. Jim reached out to firmly grip his shoulder reassuringly in passing, and then looked at the Judge. Stillwater's expression was closed, giving nothing away, but the shadows in his eyes and the sudden tightness of his jaw revealed his concern at the change in the man he'd previously known to be a wellspring of energy.

"Bailiff, get the Doctor a glass of water, would you? And then swear him in."

Blair thanked McGettrick for the water, and his voice was low and tight as he swore his oath. Frowning, Stillwater asked gently, "Doctor Sandburg, are you sure you're up to giving testimony today?"

With a shallow nod, Blair made an effort to straighten his shoulders as he lifted his head to meet the Judge's eyes. "Yes, sir. I'd just like to get this over with."

"Alright then. Take your time and tell me what happened that day."

With scarcely any inflection in his voice, Blair testified to being dragged from his home at gunpoint and taken to the meadow, where Kincaid had been waiting. Slowly, as if every word hurt, his gaze fixed on some distant point, Blair recounted what Kincaid had said.

Kincaid leapt to his feet, his face flushed, and yelled, "Damned Jew's lying! Can't believe a word he says!"

Blair's eerily calm recital came to a dead stop while the Judge thumped his gavel and Jim pushed Kincaid down onto his chair. Pointing his gavel at the defendant, Stillwater growled, "Sir, you are sorely testing the patience of this Court. I won't stand for your shenanigans and I will have you gagged if you don't shut up." Turning to Blair, his tone softened as he said, "I'm sorry for the interruption, sir. Please continue."

With another shallow nod, Blair resumed his testimony as if nothing had happened, beginning with Kincaid riding off and what happened after … up to the point of being tied to the stake, gagged, blindfolded and stoned before he smelled the kerosene, heard the match strike and the whoosh of flame, and felt the heat of the fire.

But at that point, his voice faltered. His gaze flickered to Jim and then away. "I don't … I don't know what happened then," he murmured, his voice so low that he wouldn't have been heard if the saloon hadn't been absolutely silent. "I know I was furious and I know I was sick to think that they'd probably killed others, and would kill again, and I couldn't stop them. I … I think I tried to scream at them." He'd paused and swallowed. "I heard a wolf howl and what sounded like a mountain lion. And … and the wind was wild, roaring around me all of a sudden, and the thunder … was so loud, like it was right above me."

Taking a shuddery breath, he blew it out. His voice cracked as he told them all, "I heard … I heard them screaming, dying. I … I heard it all. And … and that's all I remember until I woke up later when … when the Sheriff and the posse brought me back into town." He took a deep breath and looked straight at Kincaid. "And that's when I told Sheriff Ellison that Kincaid had been there and had ordered me to be burned to death."

The Judge lifted a warning hand toward Kincaid, who was again half out of his chair, and scowled at him until the defendant settled back down, his expression thunderous.

For a moment, there was absolute silence in the court, and then Stillwater sighed. "I'm sorry, sir, that you were made to suffer such a terrible experience. But I'm very glad you lived to tell us about it. Thank you, Doctor Sandburg. You may step down."

Stillwater then called each of the members of the posse and listened patiently as they individually corroborated the Sheriff's testimony. When the last one had finished, he rubbed his mouth. "Well, I think we could all use a break before we hear what Mr. Kincaid has to say. Members of the jury, I charge you not to discuss what has been said here today with anyone during the recess." He squinted at his pocket watch and intoned, "We'll resume in an hour." After he banged the gavel, he crossed his arms and watched as Kincaid was escorted back to his cell by one of the temporary deputies – he thought the man's name was Taffy – and as the Sheriff hunkered down beside the Doctor, his expression very evidently concerned. Glancing at McGettrick, he waved his 'bailiff' over.

"What do you think?" Stillwater muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"I think you should throw away the key … the man's slime."

Chewing on his lip, the Judge nodded and then stretched. "Well, he's got a right to state his case. But it damned well better be good. C'mon, let's get something to eat over at Maisie's place."

* * *

Precisely an hour later, Stillwater reconvened the trial, called Kincaid to the stand and had his bailiff swear the prisoner to tell the truth. McGettrick cut him a look that suggested he wouldn't bet money that the truth was what they'd hear.

"Alright, Mr. Kincaid, you've been anxious to tell me your side of the story and now's your chance. Why don't you begin by giving me a little background on how you and your people came to settle here in Bitterwood Creek?"

"Glad to, your Honor," he replied with urbane charm. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd refer to me as Colonel Kincaid."

"Colonel? I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize you were a serving officer. Is there a reason you're out of uniform?"

Kincaid flushed at the question. "I was proud to serve the South."

"Ah, I see. And the people you led here, were they men who served with you?"

"Yes, sir, they were. Fine, upstandin', brave men, all of them. Deserved better when the hostilities ended, but the damned carpetbaggers from the North picked over all that was left like locusts, stealin' the land from rightful owners."

"Uh huh," the Judge grunted, but nodded encouragingly. "So you came out here to homestead on free land, did you?"

"We did, and we are committed to making Bitterwood Creek a place we can be proud of."

"Needs improvement, does it? Not up to your standards?"

"No, sir, it is not," Kincaid confirmed, with a sharp shake of his head. "The town has potential, but it needs a firm hand and strong leadership. Needs God-fearin' people to take a stand and clean up the sordid practices goin' on."

"Sordid practices?" Stillwater echoed, one brow lifting with interest.

"Yes, sir. Disgraceful situations – women running their own businesses," Kincaid explained with evidently heartfelt sincerity. "Nigras actin' like they're as good or better'n white folks. A Jew parading around pretending to be a doctor, deceiving these poor Christian people with his lies." Kincaid shook his head as if he couldn't believe his own litany of scandalous goings-on.

Stillwater scratched his cheek. "You'd be referring to Miz Conner and Missus Dunning, who runs the bakeshop and restaurant across the street; to Henri Brown who runs the livery and blacksmith, and acts as part-time deputy; Simon Banks and Joel Taggart, who own the Gold Ribbon Ranch; and Doctor Sandburg, who holds a degree in medicine from Georgetown University?"

"Uppity women who don't know their place," Kincaid drawled with deep disgust. "Runaway slaves no better than trash and as for the Jew? The lot of them are liars and cheats, killers of our good Lord, Jesus Christ."

"Well, I seriously doubt Doctor Sandburg was present for the crucifixion," Stillwater muttered. "Alright, I think you've established your determination to put this town to rights. Now, let's talk about the specific day in question. Doctor Sandburg says you ordered your men to burn him at the stake."

"He's lying; I was nowhere near there. And I seriously protest the assertions that my men did anything wrong. I believe the Sheriff and the nigras and their worthless riders set upon my men and brutally murdered them."

Stillwater coughed and reached for a glass of water. After drinking deeply and setting the glass down, he reflected, "That's an interesting interpretation. I'd be interested to know what you'd offer as proof."

"Everyone knows the Sheriff lives with the Jew, an' is in the pocket of the rich nigras," Kincaid retorted angrily. "Can't believe a word any one of them says."

"So … who tied Doctor Sandburg to the stake?"

"There was no stake."

"Alright, then what was Doctor Sandburg doing out there with all your men?"

"He cursed them; put them under a spell to lure them there to their deaths."

Stillwater blinked. "Cursed them?"

"He's a Jew, Devil's spawn. He's the one should be on trial here, not a God fearin' man like me."

The Judge looked out over the audience, taking in Sandburg's pallor, Ellison's barely restrained fury that was scarcely less livid than that of many of the other townsfolk and Gold Ribbon men, and the smug, self-righteous expressions on those he assumed were Kincaid's people.

Turning back to Kincaid, he observed disarmingly, "I can see you're a man of substance, _Colonel_ Kincaid. Why, I'll bet you're a man who carries a goodly sum on his person at all times."

Kincaid smiled arrogantly and nodded with evident satisfaction at the Judge's assessment.

"Now then, just let me clear. It's your sworn testimony that Sheriff Ellison, the men who rode with him that day, and Doctor Sandburg conspired to kill your men; and it's your further contention that Doctor Sandburg is some kind of witch, who lies with abandon and isn't a doctor."

"Yes, your Honor, it is."

"I see. Well, Colonel Kincaid that, sir, is slander, which is against the law. I'll appropriate the money you've got in your pockets as the penalty for your lies and award the damages to the Sheriff and the Doctor."

"What!" Kincaid bellowed. "Slander? It's the God's own truth!"

Leaning on one elbow, Stillwater jabbed a finger at the apoplectic defendant. "You seem to think you're talking to a fool, Kincaid, but I assure you, you are not. For the past five years, I've stayed at the hotel and often dined well in the bakery – I'd be hard-pressed to find two less scandalous women than the very intelligent, independent and decent Miz Conner or Missus Dunning. The owners of the Gold Ribbon ranch have been the backbone of this community for nigh on twenty-five years. I stable my horse at Brown's livery and know him to be a fair, honest, and hard-working man. And I've known these two men for years," he went on in high temper, gesturing toward Jim and Blair. "The Sheriff is one of the most ethical men I have the privilege to know; he was the man who brought the US Military to account for the slaughter of defenseless men, women and children at Poplar Flats. As for Doctor Sandburg, he also has a reputation as a brave man and healer, dating to the Civil War. To my certain and personal knowledge, he has saved countless lives in this town since his arrival. But you, sir, are another matter. You offer _no_ proof of your ugly and ridiculous accusations and, instead, hang yourself with your own words of bigotry and contempt for a good many upstanding members of this community. You want to be called, 'Colonel', do you? Well and good. You've convinced me, and I daresay you've convinced the jury, that your men would _not_ act without direct orders from you. Your disgusting attitudes and hatred make it pretty damned clear that you believe the good Doctor belonged on that stake."

Shouts rang out in the saloon, Kincaid's people jeering and yelling their outrage and contempt. Stillwater hammered his gavel and shouted, "Silence! Silence or I'll have the lot of you thrown out!"

His lips thin, Stillwater gazed at Kincaid with unbridled disgust. "Your wallet," he directed, holding out his hand. "Or shall I have the bailiff relieve you of it?"

Glaring at the Judge, Kincaid pulled his billfold from inside his jacket and slapped it on the bar. "You have no right to take my money," he growled.

"I have _every_ right, you puffed-up popinjay. _I'm_ the Judge. _I_ determine when someone has broken the law in these parts and what the penalty will be. And if you kick up a fuss or make any other objectionable comments, I'll fine you more." Stillwater pulled a stack of bills from the wallet, counted them out, divided the stack in four and waved Ellison forward. "For you, for Doctor Sandburg, and for the women he demeaned," he said. "Less compensation than any of you deserve for such vile slander but I hope it will suffice as an example that I won't tolerate such nonsense in my court."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Jim replied with a wry half-smile as he accepted the bills, and then returned to his seat.

Turning back to Kincaid, the Judge said sternly, "Now that you've entertained the Court with a pack of lies and vicious slander, perhaps you'd like to give the truth a try. Or didn't swearin' on that Bible mean anythin' to a 'God-fearin' man' like you? Hmm?"

"You have no right to treat me like a criminal!" Kincaid railed furiously. "They killed my men!"

"I take it you have nothing more to add," Stillwater responded dryly. "You're dismissed. Go back to your seat, sit down and keep your mouth shut, or I'll have your sorry ass hauled back to jail right now." Ignoring Kincaid's glare of outrage, Stillwater turned to the jury. "You've heard the testimony, just as I have. I have formed my own opinion about what happened, but it's your duty to form your own, unanimously if possible. If not, a simple majority will suffice since this is not a murder trial. Mr. McCready has made his storeroom available for your deliberations. Please advise the bailiff when you've reached your verdict." Turning back to the crowd, he directed, "Court is adjourned pending the jury's verdict." And he slammed the gavel on the bar.

But the jury didn't even leave the room. After a hasty conferral, they waved to McGettrick and called, "We're ready."

Stillwater banged the gavel for order and called, "Court is back in session. The defendant will rise and face the jury. Members of the jury, what is your verdict?"

Sam Sloan stood up. "I'm the jury foreman, your Honor. Unanimously, we find Garrett Kincaid guilty of conspiracy to murder Doctor Sandburg."

"Well done. The jury is dismissed. Garrett Kincaid, I sentence you to twenty years hard labor in the Kansas State Prison for instigating the kidnapping of Doctor Sandburg from his home, the assault upon his person, and the vicious, heinous attempt to murder Doctor Sandburg by burning him to death. You're lucky he survived. I'd like to sentence you to be hung by the neck until your sorry carcass rots, but I'll have to make do with life in prison. Take him away."

When the saloon again erupted, he banged the gavel and waved it at Kincaid's irate followers. "You lot, you listen and you listen good. Mind your manners and respect my ruling, or I'll have _all_ of you thrown in prison with him!"

A surly silence fell as the settlers filed out of the saloon. Taffy grabbed Kincaid by the arm and hauled him back to the jail. Stillwater looked at the Sheriff and shook his head. "You're going to have your hands full with those people."

Jim nodded in bleak agreement, and then he turned to support Blair as he stood to make his way back to their home. Their friends surrounded them and Joel drew close to gather Blair into a hug, but the young doctor didn't respond. He seemed too broken to even be fully aware of what was happening. Stillwater bit his lip and frowned in concern. Stepping around the bar, he approached the physician. "Dr. Sandburg," he offered, his voice low and steady, "I am truly sorry those men did what they did to a good man like you. I very much hope, sir, that time will heal the memories you bear and mute them to give you peace."

"Thank you," Blair murmured, sounding strained and exhausted. Stepping back, Stillwater watched Ellison put an arm around his shoulders and shepherd him out of the saloon, their friends forming a phalanx around them as an informal honor guard.

* * *

For days after the trial, everyone in town – with a few notable exceptions – talked about the details they'd heard for the first time during the testimonies like Blair had been saved by some kind of miracle. Pastor Stevens was especially vocal about that, asserting that God had saved the righteous and condemned the guilty. At least, the adults seemed to believe that was what happened. The kids started playing games where one cursed others and they ran away shrieking in gleeful horror.

The first time Blair ventured out of the house a week later and saw them playing their new game, he went white as a sheet and barely made it around the side of the building before he vomited.

* * *

Jim watched his friend serve up their dinner and, for about the thousandth time, bit his tongue and held his peace. Though a month had passed since they'd freed Blair from that damned stake and brought him home, it wasn't over; far from it. Oh, Blair spoke when he was spoken to, managed to even sound natural, like everything was fine, great, normal. Yeah, right, normal. How 'normal' was it for Sandburg to never initiate a conversation, not once since the night he'd stammered out what had happened? Or to sit in his office, avoiding people? Sure, he went out when he was called, and still did all he could to help anyone who was sick or hurt. The quiet spell had passed and his patient load had again picked up. Now, _that_ was normal – just when Jim perversely wished his partner could have had more time to heal. He was afraid Blair was using the excuse of being busy to avoid dealing with what had happened.

And the settlers? Jim grimaced as he ate his meal in silence. Without Kincaid, they seemed to have lost confidence … and Jim thought they were damned scared of Blair. They grumbled and still spread their toxic beliefs every chance they got, but they'd settled down on their farms. Jim wished they'd pulled up stakes and moved on, but they hadn't gotten that lucky.

Jim had known it was going to take time for Blair to reconcile what had happened, and had done his best to be patient and supportive. But he was getting increasingly worried that no such coming to terms was taking place. Instead, Blair seemed to be drifting further away. It couldn't go on like this. It was driving him crazy that Blair wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't … wouldn't let it go. When Jim pushed, he just said, "I'm fine," and turned away, closing in on himself.

But what scared Jim the most was that Blair scarcely touched him anymore, except when he had to ground him, and slipped away whenever Jim tried to touch him. The only ways Jim knew how to help were to listen and to touch, to express his love, to share whatever he had, to help in any way he could.

But it was like Blair didn't want help – didn't think he deserved it. Being patient and supportive didn't seem to be doing a damned bit of good, and that left Jim feeling increasingly helpless and anxious because he just didn't know what to do, how to make things any better. He found himself becoming impatient and angry … and he was afraid he was soon going to lose it completely and shout at the man who didn't need any more pain or grief in his life. For days now, he'd been keeping a tight leash on his temper but it was getting harder and, if anything, things between them seemed to be growing ever more stilted and tense. He hated it. Hated seeing Blair so miserable, hated feeling impotent to make anything better – hated that it was tearing them both apart.

He glanced across the table and saw Blair, as usual, only picking at his food. In the last month, the kid had lost too much weight and was beginning to look gaunt. "You can't go on like this," he chided, but as gently as he knew how. "If you don't keep your strength up, you won't be any good to your patients. Worse, you'll end up getting sick. And you know what that means. Without a spleen, you could … could…" But Jim couldn't say it. Was too afraid that maybe that was Blair's plan.

"I'm fine," Blair muttered as he pushed away from the table and carried his plate to the counter; pulling his usual stunt of avoidance.

Jim couldn't stand it. Couldn't hold it in any longer – the fear and anxiety, the despair that, even though Blair had survived, Kincaid had still killed something inside of him, the anger at being shut-out. He slammed his palms down on the table and shouted, "Fine? You call this _fine_? This walking death? This … this travesty of 'normal'? You're not fine, Sandburg. I don't know exactly what you are, but _'fine'_ isn't it."

Blair flinched but didn't turn back to face him. Just stood there, silent, absorbing it, not defending himself, not fighting.

And then it hit Jim. Not fighting. For all that Blair was a peaceable man, he wasn't a coward. He didn't back down; he held his ground. And when he had to fight, he did; though he often regretted it, he also accepted it. Why wasn't he accepting it now? Christ, the kid hadn't had any choice! What was he supposed to do? Just stand there and let them burn him to death without any protest? No, dammit. And he hadn't stopped fighting, even though he'd been helpless. Because Blair was a fighter, not a quitter.

So why was he quitting now?

Standing, Jim moved to grip Blair's shoulders and, when Blair tried to pull away, he wouldn't let go. "This isn't you, Chief," he asserted. "You don't give up, not like this. I know, I know, you feel bad about what happened. But, hell, they were murderers, the lot of them. Even the Walters' boy. They were murdering you and would have murdered others. Why the hell can't you see that?"

"I do see it," Blair replied, his voice tight. "I saw it then, while it was happening. That's … that's what made me so damned angry."

"Then I don't understand," Jim sighed, still holding on, not letting him escape this time. "Why can't you let it go? Why is it tearing you apart?"

"Don't…" Blair grated.

"Don't what? Don't care? Don't feel sick at seeing you like this? You're hurting, Sandburg. Worse than I've ever seen you hurt before. You can't go on like this. Talk to me, dammit. Tell me what's going on here."

"I can't."

"Don't give me that," Jim growled in frustration, his irritation again growing. "You just don't want to. You'd rather shut out your friends, turn into some kind of martyr – to what, I don't know."

"Let me go."

"No. No, not this time. We're going to have it out here and now. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Dammit!" Blair cursed and jerked an elbow back into his solar plexus, startling him and breaking his grip. Twisting around, Blair shoved him back, hard. "Leave me alone!"

"NO! No, I won't leave you alone. I will not let what those bastards did to you destroy you. Do you hear me, Sandburg?" Jim yelled back, though he felt a spark of hope that Blair was fighting him. The anger was a whole lot better than that terrible silence. Crowding closer, using his bulk to fence Blair in, Jim grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Tell me what's eating you! Tell me what's wrong with you!"

Panting, Blair brought his arms up to break Jim's grip and tried to surge past, but Jim grabbed his arm and spun him back around.

"Don't, Jim. Please!" he begged. "I can't … I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"Can't control it!" Blair shouted, tears glazing his eyes. "Don't you get it? I'm … I don't know what I am, but I'm not … I'm … God, I'm a monster. Jesus, Jim – who does that? Calls down the fury of the gods and destroys other men with fire – just by loathing them so much, despising them, hating them for what they were doing, what they would do! I … I'm terrified. Can't you see that? Terrified I'll do it again!"

"I'm not sure you did do it," Jim shouted back.

"What?" Blair exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief. "Who the hell else was there?"

"The spirit animals."

Blair gaped at him and turned away. "Yeah, right, the wolf and the cat decided –"

"Decided those bastards weren't going to win that round," Jim cut in. "Weren't going to kill a damned decent man for sport. Decided their evil stopped there."

"You don't really believe that," Blair sighed. Raking back his hair, he looked up at Jim, all the fight gone out of him. "Nice try, though. As far as absolution goes, very nice try."

"I can believe it a whole lot easier than I can believe you're some kind of monster, Chief," Jim argued. "And it wasn't absolution because I don't think you need to be absolved of anything. You were fighting for your life – hell, not even that, because you didn't intend to call the wrath of God down on them. You were sick to your soul about their cruelty and what they'd do next."

Blair flinched and looked away.

"What? You think I don't know you were probably thinking about them coming after me? And then after everyone else their kind despise? People you love. People who are worth loving? If … and I mean that … _if_ you did that, stopped them in the only way you could, _if_ – you did it for the rest of us. To protect us. You didn't do it in revenge for what they were doing to you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, Chief. Yes, I do, because I know you," Jim insisted, desperate to keep him talking now that the dam had burst. "When have you killed, huh? Name one time that you took another life to save your own."

"Quinn."

"Quinn had shot Joel. Would have killed him for sure if you hadn't stopped him, and you know it."

Blair closed his eyes and bowed his head. "You don't understand," he whispered, sounding beaten.

"Then explain it to me."

"I wasn't in control," Blair murmured, his voice shaky. "I … I didn't know what I was doing. Didn't know I _could_ do something … something so…" He shook his head. "I don't want that kind of power. I don't want to play God."

"Even when it means being able to save a kid like Cherie?" Jim asked, aching at the pain he heard in his friend's voice.

Blair's shoulders start to quake and he covered his face with his hands as he sank to the floor, bowing forward to curl into himself.

"Aw, Chief," Jim sighed with compassion, tears stinging his own eyes as he dropped to one knee to wrap his arms around Blair and hold him close.

"I'm glad I saved her," he choked. "But … I didn't know … I didn't know…"

"Didn't know the scalpel could cut both ways," Jim offered.

"Scalpels don't," Blair moaned. "I know how to wield a scalpel."

"Well, maybe … maybe you can learn how to wield this, too," Jim murmured into his hair. "It's not all bad, Chief. Don't be afraid of the good you can do."

"The kids…" Blair stammered then, his fingers clutching Jim's shirt like a lifeline. "They … some of them … I can tell they're afraid of me now. Afraid of what I might do to them."

"Afraid you'll turn them into toads," Jim agreed, finding it hard not to smile. "I know. I heard what you said in the school that day." He hesitated and then added with a chuckle, "I hear Urseline Tucker is a little worried you might do that to her."

"It's not funny," Blair insisted, smacking his chest and trying to draw away.

"It's not the end of the world, either." Jim loosened his grip, but still held on.

"You still don't get it," Blair charged, sitting back and impatiently scraping the tears away. " _I'm_ scared of me."

Snorting, Jim sat down beside him and looped an arm around his shoulders. "Well, get over it. I'm not scared of you and nobody who knows you – knows the kind of man you are – is scared of you. Scared _for_ you, maybe. Scared of what you're doing to yourself. But … scared _of_ you? No."

"Maybe you should be," Blair retorted.

"Is that why you've been pushing me away? Pushing everyone away? Because you're scared you'll hurt us?" Jim asked, honestly astonished. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Why? If I could lash out like that without knowing what I was doing, who's to say I won't do it again, huh?"

"Well, if anyone is ever set on burning you at the stake again, I hope you do."

"Jim," Blair wailed. "Be serious about this."

"I am being serious," he insisted. "And if you asked any of the others who know what went down – Henri, Simon, Joel – they'd say the same thing. Hell, the night we brought you back, H sat in this kitchen, and when I said I thought you might be afraid of hurting people, he said 'No way,' not you. 'Cause you live to help people. That's what he said. And Simon said he was damned glad it turned out the way it did, because otherwise you'd be dead."

When Blair didn't speak and wouldn't look at him, he sighed. "Blair, for God's sake – yes, fine, it might happen again, but not by accident and not because you got annoyed or some damned thing. But if killers push you to the wall, and they threaten to hurt decent, innocent people, and it's the only way you can stop them – yeah, maybe, it'll happen again. And I say, good. Because when push comes to shove, you're the one I want walking away from that kind of encounter. And, frankly, I don't give a damn about who might not walk away."

"But it's wrong, Jim, to be judge and jury, to condemn and destroy with such incredible power. It's wrong."

Jim kneaded his shoulder. "When we found you – and them – Simon asked me what had happened there, and I said, 'Justice'. And I meant it. Sure … all things being equal, I'm all for locking the bad guys up and letting the law do its thing. But there was nothing 'equal' about what was going down there. They were savage murderers, Chief. They had no capacity to feel remorse. They were going to kill again. And they were killing you. They got what was coming to them. Exactly what was coming to them."

Blair shuddered. "Nobody deserves to die like that."

Jim sighed. "Look, I'm not going to go round and round on this. I hear what you're saying and I get that you're scared of these powers you have, that they're more than you ever imagined, and they … well, they horrify you. But I think you've let it get blown out of proportion. You've been worried about judging them – but what about how unfairly you've been judging yourself?"

Bracing his elbows on his knees, Blair pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. His shoulders slumped as the last of his resistance bled out of him, and he leaned against Jim – the first time he'd sought such support since the night it had all happened. Jim wrapped both arms around him and just held him.

"You're not a monster, Sandburg," he finally offered into the silence. "I don't know exactly what you are – an avenging angel, maybe? An instrument of God's will. If there is a God; you've always been more convinced of that than I am. But, mostly, you're a healer. And in your own way, you're a protector, just like I am. It just … just hurts you more when you can't save everyone. Even the bad ones."

Blair nodded against his chest. And then, to Jim's immense relief, Blair slipped his arms around him, and hugged him back.

For a time, Jim was content to simply savor the closeness, the contact. But there was more he had to know; more that had to be said. Bowing his head, he pressed his lips against Blair's head, and then asked, "Why have you shut me out? Why won't you let me help you?"

At first, he didn't think Blair was going to answer. But then his partner sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I … I haven't wanted to drag you down with me. Haven't wanted to … use you. Use what you give me. I need to deal with this myself."

Lifting his head, Jim looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. "Use me?" he echoed, sorely tempted to shake the stuffing out of his stubborn friend.

"Yeah," Blair admitted, his face still turned away. "You know what I mean. When I'm … when I've spent too much of myself, gone too far, you … your love, your care and concern … your strength – you give it all to me. I, well, I haven't felt I deserved that, I guess. I made this mess. I should clean it up."

"Sandburg, that is such bullshit," he griped. "Sonofabitch, Chief, are we or are we not partners? Did we or did we not promise to share what comes and support one another as best we can? Huh?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Have you thought about what it does to me, to not be able to touch you?" Jim charged, knowing it was selfish, but what the hell? It was the truth. "You think you're the only one who needs what we give each other?"

"Ah, geez, that's not fair," Blair protested. "Lately, all I've been doing is taking … and that really isn't fair to you."

"Don't you want me to touch you?" Jim pressed.

"Oh, don't," Blair moaned, straining against him, holding him tighter. "You know that's not it. It's been so hard, so damned hard, but I … I don't want to use you. Don't ever want to use you."

Jim threaded his fingers through the curls and tugged gently. "Look at me, Chief. C'mon," he tugged again, "look at me."

Slowly, Blair raised his face, and Jim tenderly traced the lines of strain as he gazed into the troubled eyes. "I love you, you moron," he said as gently as he knew how. "And I need you, Chief. Every bit as much as you need me. Maybe more. When you hurt, I hurt. I just want to hold you, okay? Just … just let me help you."

Blair pressed his lips together and he swallowed convulsively. His eyes grew damp but he blinked the insipient tears away. "Okay, Jim. I … it's been so hard man, and I'm so tired."

Jim smiled. Relief flooding him, he asked with simple hope, "So we're okay?"

And then, after far too long, Blair smiled at him. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand. Jim clasped it strongly, accepting the offer and the request Blair was making, understanding the symbolism of it, the import, and could have burst with the happiness that coursed through him.

The healer – _his_ healer – had finally consented to be healed.

* * *

Thinking about it all the next day after Jim had gone to work, Blair was grateful to his partner for confronting him and literally shaking some sense into him. For so long, he'd felt as if he was locked in a fog, unable to sleep or think straight, mired in horror, fear and guilt. He doubted he'd ever think about those terrible minutes, hearing those dying screams, without feeling sick. But he was finally able to accept that he wasn't some kind of bomb that could go off without warning, that he wasn't a constant danger to the people around him. Intellectually, he could also accept Jim's arguments – which were strongly seconded, he knew, by Henri, Simon and Joel – that he'd acted, to some extent, with instinctive self-defense, even as a kind of protector who couldn't bear the thought of others being tortured and killed by those men. But the magnitude of his action, however unexpected and unintended, still left him feeling very anxious about how little he understood or was able to control his new abilities.

The bottom line was that he couldn't change what had happened and guilt didn't make it better. And Jim had said something else later last night that had really given him pause. Jim had said he'd wished it could have gone down differently, that he'd understood sooner the danger Blair had been in, that the bastards had been killed in a gunfight with Jim and the others, instead of Blair having to live with the responsibility of their deaths. Blair had caught himself nodding in wistful agreement – and then had realized how hypocritical he was being.

Down deep, he really wasn't sorry those men were dead; hell, in many ways, he was relieved because they had been conscienceless killers and had posed a continuing threat not just to him but to a lot of people. If anything, it was his lack of regret that they were dead that had been haunting him, because he didn't want to feel good about something like that. Blair was disgusted with himself for squeamishly wishing it had been someone else who had killed them, for wishing that responsibility on Jim and the friends who had ridden to rescue him. What a hell of thing to wish on people he loved, and how utterly ludicrous was it to mope around about it when he'd be just fine if anyone but him had killed them?

 _Get over it,_ he'd told himself then, impatient with himself for his foolishness. _It's done, you did it, and you're not sorry they're dead. Not happy about it, sure, fine; but not sorry, either._

So he was determined to do his best to move on, just as he had had to do when he'd killed in the past. He didn't feel any better about it, but he was going to stop wallowing in how badly he felt. Looking back, he could see how Jim and his friends had tried to help him – Joel, especially, had done his damnedest to help him through the trial. He remembered Joel wrapping his bear-like arms around him and was ashamed to know he'd just stood there, unable to accept the support. He'd been so mired in his misery, so utterly self-absorbed, he'd made himself deaf and blind to everything anyone had said or done. And he fervently hoped he'd never, ever, have to face such a situation again. Chagrined now that he could think clearly, he was sorry he'd caused his friends to worry so much about him, but was very touched that they cared so much. And, man, he was thankful that Jim had finally just had enough of putting up with the bullshit, and had forced him to face it rather than giving up on him.

God, he wished he understood it all better, and knew how to handle it better. Shaking his head, he recalled how he'd pretty much reveled in his newfound abilities when they'd allowed him to know Steven was still alive and to help find him; when he'd been able to draw upon them to create fire to impress Geronimo and his people and to create a distraction in the railroad camp, like some kind of parlor trick. And he could never be sorry that he had the capacity to heal. But … he now knew to the depths of his soul that these weren't just handy little tricks or benign abilities. The realization was chilling and he sorely wished he was certain of how to control what he could do, and he sure in hell hoped he'd never _willfully_ contemplate turning such power against other human beings. The magnitude of what he was able to do and the responsibility his abilities conveyed were staggering, leaving him feeling both humble and afraid.

Shuddering, he couldn't even imagine doing something like that again – didn't _want_ to imagine it.

Taking a breath, he told himself he'd just have to deal with how overwhelming it felt; his gifts helped him heal and that's what mattered most.

At least … at least as awful as his memories were about what he'd done, with Kincaid in prison and the worst of his followers dead, his people had settled down. The threat the new settlers had posed to Jim, their friends – hell, the whole town – seemed to be over. Maybe now, life could get back to normal. And for that, he could be _very_ grateful.

Pushing away from the table, he washed up the dishes from breakfast and poured himself another cup of coffee. Still a bit shaky but feeling better than he had in weeks, lighter somehow, he ambled into his small dispensary to make up the packets of medicine he'd need to take on his rounds later that morning.

* * *

Days melted into weeks under the summer's burning sun; July came and went and soon it would be September. The settlers kept pretty much to themselves, busy with building their cabins to ensure they had more than tent canvas or wagons for shelter when the weather turned cold. Some of the men had come in to clear the away the wreckage of the construction sites, hauling the wood and used nails back to their settlement to use in building their new homes. They'd been sullen and glowering while they worked, but hadn't caused any trouble. And, in keeping with the requirements for homesteading, they were improving the land, planting crops … and bringing in sheep to raise for the wool, and to slaughter for the markets in the east. They finished building their own meeting house, too, to hold their worship services. With the school closed for the summer, there was little reason for them to come into town other than to buy supplies at the general store or to call on Milt Ambrose if they were sick or someone had been hurt.

Jim wanted to believe the crisis was over, the danger passed. Things had sure quieted down. Mostly, he was glad that Blair seemed to have bounced back. He was eating again, and had regained most of the weight he'd lost. Smiling and joking again, he was getting back to normal, but his eyes still didn't sparkle with energy, and that was worrisome. There were times when he seemed distracted, his expression distant and clouded, anxious, and Jim figured he was still battling the ghosts of the men he'd killed. Took time to lay something like that to rest.

But … for all that there'd been no major trouble, Jim felt uneasy. Little things, small in themselves, seemed to him to signal that the river of poison hadn't dried up, had just gone underground. Sam had mentioned the other day that, even though another bank wasn't being built, he didn't know where the settlers were safeguarding their money. They weren't using the bank, and Clive Tucker had taken his own savings out, as had some others in town. Sam speculated that the settlers had set up a kind of credit system amongst themselves, which was fine. No reason they shouldn't … but it signaled that they were determined not to support any institution that did business with people like Simon and Joel.

A rock had been thrown through a church window one night the week before. Could have been kids, a prank; but it could also have been a signal of something more virulent. Some folks in town, like the Tuckers, had taken to attending the new meeting house out by the settlement and talked about the purity of the lessons taught there, the sermons that spoke of the superiority of the white race and man's rightful dominance over women because of Eve's original sin. Women were just weak-spirited, they said, easily led. Jim rolled his eyes and wondered how Clive – or anyone for that matter – could swallow such pig-swill when Urseline was a perfect example of a very strong-spirited, opinionated and cantankerous woman who wouldn't be led by anything but her own narrow-minded ideas.

Someone was writing self-righteous diatribes to Dan Raymond, insisting he print them as 'editorials'; putrid stuff about how people with black skins had descended from monkeys and weren't fully human, and about how Jews couldn't be trusted – and worse, far worse, should all be condemned and exterminated for having murdered Jesus. Dan used the trash as kindling for his small stove in the office. But the anonymous letters kept coming, nasty, ugly epistles of hate.

The Tuckers and their like-minded friends in town had also transferred their families to Milt Ambrose's questionable care. Urseline never seemed to tire of standing on street corners to gossip about how wonderful it was that such a fine, upstanding, brilliant _Christian_ was now offering excellent doctoring to folks in town, and how she just could _not_ understand why anyone would choose to go to anyone else now that there was a choice. Fanning herself, she'd ask how anyone could _actually trust_ someone who wasn't a Christian, how they could feel _safe_ and not fear their souls would be sent straight to hell. Jim swore she had to be stalking Blair because her loud commentary seemed to invariably occur when Blair was nearby, on his way in or out of the general store or when he was walking to or from one of his house calls to see a patient. The last time Jim had overheard the vicious busybody he'd –

 _Sonuvabitch, she's at it again!_ he realized, surging up from his desk, nearly incandescent with fury. He could hear her going on about it in the general store. In three steps, he was out the door. He had a few choices things of his own to say about idiots who put their lives and the wellbeing of their kids in the hands of that greedy, self-serving charlatan, Milt Ambrose.

When he stomped into the store, Blair looked around from the counter, where he was paying Angus for their supplies. "Hey, Jim," he called, his cheerful tone belied by the sharp warning in his eyes. "Just in time to help me carry all this stuff home."

"Chief, that's not why –" he growled, shifting his gaze to Urseline who was holding court in front of the barrel of apples. He took a step in her direction only to find his way blocked by his partner.

"Don't," Blair grated so low nobody but Jim could have heard him, and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Look, enough is –"

"No!" Blair hissed through his fixed smile. "She's got a right to her opinions, not to mention free speech," he insisted. "You're the Sheriff – you're supposed to uphold the law, remember? Not use your authority to intimidate. Now come on. Help me carry this stuff home. Save me an extra trip."

Steaming with annoyance, Jim glared at Urseline – for all the good it did. When he caught the satisfied glitter in her eyes when she looked at him, he wanted to throttle her. But he allowed Blair to turn him toward the counter and he dutifully picked up one of the loaded boxes. Behind the counter, Angus looked even more dour than usual as he counted out Blair's change.

"Sheriff," he acknowledged with a tight nod. "Doc, thanks for the business."

Grinding his teeth together, Jim led the way out onto the boardwalk, but they'd hardly stepped outside when he heard Angus call, "Mrs. Tucker, if you don't mind, this is a store not a ladies' tea party. I'd be obliged if you'd all finish up your _shopping_ so's other customers can get to what they'd like to buy."

"Huh!" Jim gusted. "Good for him."

"What?" Blair asked, looking around in confusion.

"Angus just told Urseline Tucker to finish her shopping and move on," Jim reported with a smug smile of vindication.

"Oh, man," Blair sighed. "I appreciate it, but that won't stop her. Besides, I can't say I miss dealing with her and the others who are now going to Milt. A little worried about their continuing health, maybe, but he's a better qualified doctor than most who claim to know what they're doing, so it could be worse."

"Chief, she's –"

"I know, I know," Blair cut in as he strode toward the house. "I know what's she's saying. Believe me, I've heard it all. But paying any attention to her will only encourage her – she'll get all self-righteous about 'some people' not wanting 'other people' to speak their minds or some damned thing. Jim, people around here either agree with her or they don't; nothing she says or anyone else says is going to change that. Eventually, she'll find something else to talk about; hopefully soon. It's embarrassing but … she's entitled to her own opinions. You just have to ignore her, not let her get to you."

Jim grimaced as he followed Blair into their home to take the supplies into the kitchen. Setting the box down on the table, he asked, "Is that what you do? Not let her get to you? I don't know how you do it – listen to that crap and not fight back."

Blair shrugged as he took cans from a box to put in the cupboard under the counter. "I can't say it doesn't bother me; it does. It is uncomfortable, embarrassing, and well, some days just plain infuriating. But … but it's about picking your fights, I guess. Urseline is annoying, but that's all she is. Guess I'd be more concerned if it was someone I respected."

Listening, Jim nodded thoughtfully. He understood what Blair was saying, and could see his point that it wasn't worth fighting about. Maybe. But … 'uncomfortable' was no way to live, and it pissed him off that Blair had to settle for that. Blair and the Browns, and anyone else who was 'different'.

Sometimes … sometimes he almost missed Kincaid and the fight the man had offered. At least he'd been upfront; Jim could deal with 'upfront'. It was the ones who hid in the bushes and spewed their poison in small but persistent ways that aggravated the hell out of him; there didn't seem to be any way to make them stop. They were like water wearing down stone, just a trickle at a time, but possibly more dangerous in their way, more capable of erosion and massive long-lasting destruction to the fabric of their town, than Kincaid had been. Kincaid had given them something to rally around and fight.

Sighing, not having any answers, not even sure how to name the insidious threat he felt in his bones, he helped Blair unpack and put away their goods.

* * *

Jim looked up at the creaking of wagons, the jangling of harnesses, and the thudding of more horses than it took to haul wagons. Rising from behind his desk, he stepped out the door to look down the street at the approaching cavalcade, grinning to see Joel atop the lead buckboard, and Simon on his palomino, riding with a dozen or so of their men as escort. Moving to the edge of the boardwalk, he tipped his hat as Joel rolled past, though he was already hauling on the traces to stop the wagon in front of the general store. Jim was puzzled as he looked at the empty wagon beds; wasn't usual for the Gold Ribbon ranchers to stock up on so many supplies at one time, let alone at this time of year when their own gardens met their needs.

"You look like you plan to clear out the whole store," he called good-naturedly.

Joel was climbing down from the wagon as Simon waved their men toward the saloon to wash the trail dust from their mouths. "We'll be in shortly," Simon called as he looped his palomino's reins over the hitching post. Drawing off his hat, he wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand before resettling the Stetson at a casual angle on the back of his head. "Jim," he acknowledged with a smile, holding out his hand for their ritual greeting.

Smiling broadly, Joel slapped Jim on the shoulder on his way inside the store. "I'll take care of settling the account, and then go see if Blair and H got some time to join us for a chinwag while the men load the wagons."

"Sounds good," Simon agreed, and he and Jim made their way to the saloon.

Jim looked back over his shoulder and noted that the smile had vanished from Joel's face after he'd turned to enter the store. Pushing through the bat-wing doors behind Simon, he took in the expressions of the riders, all of whom he knew well. Rafe was watchful, and the usually cheerful Taffy looked downright grim, as did Reynolds, Nelson and Larkin. They had moseyed up to the bar, but they hadn't turned their backs on the front or rear entries.

"Trouble?" he asked, keeping his tone deliberately mild.

"Hope not," Simon replied with a grimace. "But it can't hurt to be careful these days," he sighed and waved at Moe to send two mugs of beer to the table he chose where he could watch the street out the front windows. "Tex got winged the other day, riding along the northern ridge."

"What!" Jim exclaimed, frowning heavily. "He okay?"

"Yeah, just a graze," Simon sighed. "Didn't see who did the shootin'; just high-tailed back to the ranch. Nobody rides the range alone now, just in case."

"The settlers have your northern boundary pretty well staked out," Jim observed.

"Yeah, and they're crowding on the west, too. Trying to cut us off from town, make us ride the long way around," Simon reported as he took the beer Moe handed him with a nod of gratitude.

"Damn," Jim muttered as he lifted his frothing mug.

"Uh huh," Simon grunted. "You know us – we like to be peaceable. But I swear they're still spoiling for a war."

"Hey, Simon! Guys!" Blair called out cheerfully as he arrived with Joel and Brown.

"Blair," Simon greeted with a warm smile. "You're lookin' a sight better, son, than the last time we saw you."

As he and the others joined them at the round table, Blair gave both older men a smile. "I'm a lot better, thanks." Giving them a bemused look and a tight shake of his head, he added, "I was really out of it … might not have seemed like I appreciated your support, but I did. A lot. Thank you." Before they had a chance to say anything, he swiftly asked, "So what brings you into town? With all those wagons, looks like you're stocking up for winter early this year."

"Nah," Joel replied, his lips twisting with irritation. "Angus got in a load of barbed wire for us. We're here to pick it up."

"You're fencing the range?" Blair exclaimed, looking from one to the other in astonishment. "But, but that's –"

"Not something cattlemen do," Simon cut in, his expression tight. "Can't say as we like it, and we'd be lyin' if we said we're not worried about losing cattle over the winter, if they drift against the fence and freeze to death, but we don't have much choice."

"The settlers've brought in sheep," Joel explained, sounding tired. "We have to protect the pasturage – sheep forage clear to the dirt." He sighed and shook his head. "Stupid to graze them here. They'll have a dustbowl on their hands in no time."

"We're also takin' care to keep the settlers themselves out," Simon intoned as he lifted his mug and drained it. "We're missing steers along the north and west boundaries … and Tex got winged a few days ago up in the same area."

"Is he okay? Why didn't you send for me?" Blair demanded.

"He's fine, son," Joel soothed. "No more'n a scratch. Fair warning, though, that things haven't settled down as much as we hoped they would."

Jim shifted his gaze to Blair in time to catch the flash of despair before it was gone, hidden by other shadows of concern for their friends.

Not for the first time, Jim cursed Kincaid and his band of troublemakers. Setting his mug on the table, he wondered where it was ever going to end – or if it ever would.

"I don't like it," Joel grumbled. "We came out here in the first place so we'd never have to feel boxed in again; never feel like we were in a cage. An' now, hell, we're putting up the wire our own selves."

* * *

Blair was very pleased with Maisie. She'd followed his advice and had been out walking every day, often twice a day, for nearly two months now. Her color was better despite the summer's persistent heat, and her ankles and hands were no longer swollen. Blair could see that she'd lost fifteen or twenty pounds and was lighter on her feet.

"I feel so much better, Doc," she said with a happy grin. "I don't get so breathless anymore, and I'm not nearly so tired at the end of the day."

"I'm glad, really glad," he replied. "You've been taking good care of yourself and it shows. I'm proud of you, Maisie! Now," he went on, waggling a playful finger at her, "just keep it up!"

"I will, I can promise you that," she assured him, patting his back as she walked him to the door of her shop. "You've made a new woman of me, Doc. I'm grateful to you."

"You've made a new woman of yourself," he contested with a smile.

He was still smiling when he stepped out on the boardwalk and turned to head back to his office – and nearly ran into a woman and her son, who'd just climbed down off their wagon outside of the apothecary.

"Oh, sorry, excuse me," he apologized.

She looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened. "Lord save us!" she gasped and, grabbing her son's hand, she pulled him away, and held up her other hand in a sign to ward off the Devil. "Get away from us!" she screeched. "Get away!"

Carefully containing his expression, though he knew he was probably flushing, he held up his hands and backed off, and then turned to jump down into the street, walking stiffly across to the other side. Jim came out of his office, his scowl thunderous, just as Blair climbed the steps onto the boardwalk outside of their house.

"What was that all about?" he demanded, jerking his head toward the woman who had scurried into Ambrose's shop.

His jaw clenched, Blair looked away.

"Sandburg?"

Still getting his temper under control, Blair muttered bitterly, "What? That? That was just an example of the latest trend going around. The settlers, and some others, have started using a hand sign to 'ward off demons'. Seems to work best when accompanied by hisses or screeches."

"Since when?" Jim asked, looking seriously appalled.

Determined not to vent his anger on Jim, Blair blew a long breath. "Oh, for a week or so, I guess; should be fun when the kids go back to school next week. They'll all be doing it for the scary thrill it gives them."

"Ah, Chief," Jim groaned and bowed his head, the brim of his Stetson obscuring his face. "Honest to God, I don't know what to say," he rasped, fury mingling with pathos and helplessness in his voice. "This is … dammit."

Blair's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I know," he sighed. Reaching out, he gripped Jim's arm, both to give and receive comfort from the touch. "It's okay."

"No, it damned well isn't 'okay'," Jim snarled, his head coming up, meeting Blair's gaze, his blue eyes hard with rage that Blair knew wasn't directed at him, but was very much on his behalf.

"You're right. It's not. Relegate it to the 'shit we can't do anything about' file," Blair replied. He took another breath and squared his shoulders. "Look, I've got work to do and I know you do, too. But, uh, thanks, man. For being furious. It helps, you know. Really helps that I don't have to suck it up and deal with it alone."

Jim's mouth tightened as he scanned the street. "You don't have to put up with this crap, you know? Just say the word, Sandburg, and we're gone."

Blair gave him a smile and the chill of the encounter melted away. "I know, and I appreciate that more than I can ever say. I'm … I'm still hoping it won't come to that. I'm not ready to throw in the towel yet."

Jim searched his face and gave him a small, tight nod. "It's your call, Chief. You've got a hell of a lot more patience than I do. But it's your call."

His smile widening, Blair slapped his arm as he turned toward their house. "Thanks, Jim," he murmured. "Thanks for … well, just thanks."

* * *

Blair was making notes on his last patient of the day when he heard the front door open. He looked up, wondering who else had gotten sick or maybe had an accident. But, to his surprise, Jim appeared in the entry, carrying a sack from the general store.

"Hey, didn't expect you this early. Just taking a break?" Blair asked with a smile.

"Nah, decided to play hooky for the rest of the afternoon," Jim replied with a shrug. "You finished for the day?" he asked, sounding hopeful.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good," Jim said, mouth curving in a conspiratorial smile as he tipped his head toward the back of the house. "Thought maybe we could sneak off down to the creek, do a little fishing, have a cookout." He lifted the sack. "I got us some steaks, in case we don't catch anything."

"Hey, now, that sounds like a plan I can get behind," Blair agreed with a grin. "What else you got there?"

"Oh, a couple ears of corn, some mushrooms and onions – we've got potatoes, right?"

"Uh huh. I'll get them and the…"

"Nuh-uh, you just finish up there and get our fishing rods. I'll take care of everything for supper," Jim cut in cheerfully, as he disappeared from view. "Meet you out back."

Tickled by the idea of 'playing hooky', Blair quickly finished his notes and locked up his records. He heard Jim still messing around in the kitchen when he headed down the hall and through the infirmary to the back door. But he'd just come out of their shed, fishing poles and their small tackle box in hand when Jim appeared carrying a large pot with everything else he needed stuffed inside.

They sauntered in companionable silence across the long grass to the creek, and then along the water to a shady place upstream that had become a favorite fishing hole two years before. A light breeze laden with the light, sweet scent of clover and wild honeysuckle ruffled their hair and gentled the heat of the day. Aside from the rustling leaves, the warble and twittering of birds, and the gurgle of the water whispering along the bank, it was blessedly quiet, the busy sounds of the noisy town lost behind them. Blair took a deep breath and could feel the tension in his muscles ease.

Jim set down the supplies and, after they sorted out the hooks, they settled, shoulder to shoulder against a couple of comfortable rocks warmed by the lowering sun, and dropped their lines over the low bank into the slow-moving stream. Sunlight filtered through the slightly swaying branches, creating a soothing dappling of shadow and winking brilliant gems of light on the water.

"This is nice," Blair murmured, his gaze drifting across the narrow creek to the trees on the far side. Wild flowers grew in profusion along the far bank, a rainbow of colors crowning through the grass and peeking out from under the low growing bushes. Butterflies, yellow, orange and a few blue, fluttered lazily on the balmy wind.

"Mmm," Jim agreed and shifted to drape an arm around Blair's shoulders.

Soothed by the tranquility, Blair felt himself relax more than he had in weeks. His attention mesmerized by the play of light and shadow on the water, his thoughts drifted away from his worries about the town and the settlers. His breathing slowed and deepened, and he felt the healing heat of the sun soak into his bones…

He woke to crackle of flames, and the scent of woodsmoke mingling with that of frying onions, mushrooms and potatoes, and meat sizzling over the fire. Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head and yawned widely. "Mmm, that smells good," he sighed as he looked back over his shoulder at his friend, who was squatting by the fire, tending to a pot of boiling corn and the frying pans. "Guess we didn't catch any fish."

"Nope," Jim agreed, and looked up at him with a lazy smile. "Hungry?" he asked.

" _Starving_ ," Blair replied with a grin, shifting to sit closer to the fire. "Anything I can do?"

"All taken care of," Jim assured him.

Blair yawned again and rolled his shoulders as his gaze drifted over the countryside. A small smile curved his lips when he looked back at Jim, understanding that his friend had decided he needed some pampering, some time to just … be. Away from the town. Away from everything. Just the two of them with nothing to worry about. "Thanks, man," he murmured.

Jim's eyes searched his and, evidently satisfied with what he found, he just nodded before turning his attention back to their meal. A few minutes later, he stabbed two cobs of corn with a fork, pulling them from the roiling, steaming water and set them on a plate. He flipped the steaks and, while they finished cooking, he lathered the cobs with butter and then salted them lightly, just enough for flavor. Rolling one onto another plate, he handed it to Blair.

They nibbled enthusiastically from one end to another, savoring the rich taste, careless of the butter dripping down their fingers and smearing their lips. Blair was just finishing his when Jim dished up the main course of succulent sirloin, cooked to perfection just the way Blair liked it. Blair didn't know how he did it, maybe using a combination of scent and the springy feel of the cooking meat, but Jim always got it right. Digging in with good appetite, unable to remember when he'd last been so hungry or so enjoyed the taste of food, Blair moaned with appreciation, drawing an amused chuckle from Jim.

"Oh, it's great," he mumbled his praise around a mouthful. "Best steak I ever tasted."

When he swallowed the last bite, having chewed slowly to relish the flavors, he set the plate down and smiled happily. Inhaling deeply, feeling pleasantly full, he exhaled slowly and then said, "That was just perfect."

Smiling broadly, his gaze warm with affection, Jim dipped his chin. "Good, I hoped you'd enjoy it." He settled the coffee pot on the still-hot embers and gathered up the dishes and the pots, taking them to the creek to scour first with the gritty sand along the bank, and then to rinse them clean. The coffee finished perking while he was still doing the clean-up. Using one of the rags Jim had brought to wrap around the hot handle, Blair poured two mugs and carried them over to the creek. When Jim set the clean utensils aside to dry in the sunlight, he handed his partner a mug and they settled on the rocks, their shoulders again lightly brushing against one another.

"I needed this," Blair murmured, gesturing at the water and the trees with his mug.

"We both did," Jim replied, his tone low and easy. Sliding his arm around Blair's back, he looped his fingers over Blair's shoulder and upper arm, massaging lightly. "They don't define who you are, Blair. Hell, they don't know you, don't know anything about you. And they never will, because they don't want to. But that's their loss, Chief." He paused and shook his head. "There's times when they make me so mad I…" But he stopped and turned his head to look at down at Blair. "But, you know what? I could almost feel sorry for them. 'Cause they don't know what they're missing. Almost," he said again, and drew Blair closer against his side.

"Only almost?" Blair echoed with a small, bemused smile.

"Yeah, only almost. If they had any redeeming qualities, I could feel honestly sorry for them. But they don't." Jim tilted his head to look up at the sky. Slow and reflective, he said with quiet conviction, "They have no idea that one of the best men they'll ever encounter in their lives is right here, and that you'd be their friend if they'd let you. You're a good man, Sandburg. You'd … take care of them, if they let you. But they shut you out and treat you like dirt. So I figure they don't deserve the … the privilege of knowing you. I can't feel sorry for people who willfully hurt you, Chief. I can't feel anything much more than contempt for them."

Touched by Jim's words, grateful for them, Blair leaned against his strength and bowed his head.

"The luckiest single moment of my life was on the day I rode into this town and got myself shot; otherwise, I might've just ridden right back out again, and never met the best man I've ever known, the best friend I'll ever have. Jim paused, and his voice was lower when he continued. "You changed my life, Chief. Changed me. Made me a better man than I was; certainly, a far happier one." His gaze roaming the creek now, the trees on the far side, his words coming slower still, he went on, "You've taught me about more than my senses, you know; a lot more. When I rode in here, I was bitter, angry and … utterly alone in the world. I couldn't imagine any kind of future that mattered. You taught me how to trust; how to … how to care again about life, about the people in my life. You taught me how to love. I can't imagine … well, I don't even want to imagine never having gotten to know you."

Blair's throat tightened and he slipped his arm around Jim's waist. Despite his uncertainties and the helpless anger of the day, Blair felt peace and contentment suffuse him, like spring rain falling gentle on the barren desert, bringing a dawning splendor and brilliant affirmation of life ... and hope for the future. For so long, he'd yearned for a home as they'd wandered the world, him and Naomi, ever seeking, never finding. And in his aching youth and young manhood, he'd been tempted by the lure of stability into believing he loved and was loved, but it had been only a mirage, not real. Not lasting. He'd felt forsaken, betrayed, abandoned and had thought he'd never know this fulfillment. For so long, through so many lonely years, he'd wandered seeking home, believing it to be a place.

Now, at last, he knew that home wasn't a place, it was a person. Home was Jim, being here with him, needed and wanted by him. Supporting one another, building a life together, laughing and sharing the hurts, and this … moments like this that were more precious than gold and silver. Whether they were sheltered by stone or wood, or under the wide canopy of the starlit heavens, it didn't matter, so long as they were together.

"Works both ways, Jim," he murmured pensively. "You taught me a lot about trust, too. I didn't know what real friendship meant until I met you. I didn't know what it felt like to … to have someone I could count on. To have … a family, till I met you. I thought I'd always just be passing through, drifting, looking for something – home, I guess – but never expecting to ever find it."

"And … now?" Jim asked, his grip around Blair's shoulders tightening.

"Now, I'm home. Here and now. Not here in Bitterwood Creek; that's not what I mean. I mean, with you; wherever you are, when I'm with you, I'm home."

"So'm I, Chief, when I'm with you," Jim affirmed as he rested his chin on Blair's head. "So'm I."

They sat by the edge of the creek until the sun had slipped below the horizon and stars were beginning to sparkle overhead in the deep indigo of the night sky.

* * *

September came, school started again, and the settlers' children, along with others who lived on outlying farms and small ranches along the river, made their daily trek into Bitterwood Creek. The littlest ones were accompanied by mothers who took the opportunity to visit friends in town and do a bit of shopping at the general store or the apothecary. After the first few days, when their numbers filled the street for the first hour or so of the day, Blair consciously remained at home. There was only so much warding off the devil or shrill exclamations of hate and fear that he was prepared to face, and he'd already had to stomach more than enough of the hysteria. He didn't say anything about it, just quietly shifted his schedule to do his rounds later in the morning; he rather hoped Jim wouldn't even notice.

But one morning, midway through the second week of September, Jim drained his coffee cup and set it carefully on the table, the conscious gesture of a man afraid he might otherwise smash the crockery into very small pieces.

Blair quirked a brow as he glanced from the blameless mug to his partner's tight expression. _Here it comes,_ he thought, but managed to stifle the sigh.

"You don't have to cower in here every morning until they're gone," Jim grated. "This is your town, more than it is theirs."

"I'm not cowering," Blair countered. "Simply … judiciously avoiding unpleasant encounters."

"Judiciously?" Jim echoed, his gaze narrowing.

"Yeah," Blair explained, an impish grin playing around his lips and lighting his eyes. "I've noticed the Sheriff in town is getting increasingly annoyed by the nonsense. Wouldn't do for him to haul off and smack a woman for being an idiot."

Jim snorted as he stood to buckle on his gunbelt. "More like shoot 'em for being criminally stupid," he muttered. Grabbing his hat from the peg, he asked, uncertainty in his voice and eyes, "You sure you're okay, Chief? This … I'm sorry you have to put up with this crap."

"I'm good," Blair told him, his grin widening. "Don't worry about it; in the great scheme of things, doing rounds mid-morning instead of right after breakfast isn't a big deal."

Though he didn't look convinced, Jim nodded and turned away. "See you at lunch," he called as he went out the door.

Blair's grin faded as he cleaned up the kitchen. "It's _not_ a big deal," he mumbled, but his jaw tightened as he slammed the damp rag down on the counter, and he felt futile anger burn in his chest. "Get used to it," he snarled to himself as he tromped across the hall to his office. "It's the way things are now. Just the way things are."

* * *

Later that morning, he strolled across the small town to visit Sarah Sloan and Delores McCready on one of his regular visits to see how their maternity cases were coming along and to offer any coaching if it was needed, particularly for the cases in the settlement where he couldn't visit the women personally. When he knocked on the Sloans' front door but didn't get an answer, he wandered around to the back in case Sarah was out of earshot in her garden. As soon as he came around the corner, he knew something was wrong.

Sarah and Delores were sitting on the old bench under an apple tree, and Sarah was sobbing. Hurrying to join them, he dropped to one knee beside Sarah and touched her arm.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" he asked, looking from her to Delores, who also had tears in her eyes.

"Hard case," Delores murmured as she rubbed Sarah's back consolingly.

Sniffing, scrubbing the tears from her face but unable to stop the leaking of more from her eyes, Sarah panted, "Lorelei Samuels … I couldn't … I couldn't…"

"Easy, easy," Blair soothed. "Slow down, okay? Just, just concentrate on getting your breath. Slow, deep breaths, that's it … slow and easy." Looking up at Delores, he asked, "Could you fetch Sarah a glass of water? She keeps a pitcher in a bucket of well water just inside the kitchen door, to keep it fresh and cool."

"Sure thing, Doc," she agreed, and seemed relieved to be given something definite to do that might be helpful.

Blair drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Sarah, who dabbed her face and blew her nose. Tears still streamed from her eyes, but the wrenching sobs had stopped.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, her voice still catching. "But it was so … so h-hard."

"What happened?" he asked, his tone low and calm.

She sniffed again and swallowed, and twisted his handkerchief in her hands. "Lorelei went into labor yesterday afternoon. But the baby was turned the wrong way. I … I tried to move it, you know? The way you taught us. But it wasn't working. And, and I knew she was in trouble. Her feet and her legs were so swollen and she wasn't breathing right."

Her voice caught, and he took her hand, afraid he knew what was coming. "It's okay, Sarah. You did everything right. I know you've been encouraging her to stay off her feet and watch her diet. And I know you did everything you could."

"I tried," she murmured. Taking a breath, she looked at him. "I begged them, Doc. I _begged_ them to let me get you. I know you could have helped her. If they'd let me get you, she'd … she wouldn't have…"

Her voice broke again and she covered her face with her hands. Delores returned with a glass of water. "Here, Sarah," she offered uncertainly.

Sarah accepted the offering and took a few sips. Her expression was haunted and her tone subdued but tight with anger as she continued, "They refused; both Lorelei and her husband, Reese. Said they wouldn't have you in the house; wouldn't let you look at her, let alone touch her. So they sent for that fool, Ambrose, who was worse than useless. He just stood there, muttering about God's will." She sniffed and took another sip of water as if fortifying herself. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head. "She started convulsing just after dawn, and then she … she stopped breathing. She died and took her baby with her. And there was nothing I could do. Nothing but stand there and watch…"Her voice hitched with a sob. "Watch her die."

"Oh, Sarah," Blair moaned, sick at heart to hear the tragic story and saddened that Sarah had been caught in an impossible situation. He reached out and wrapped her in a firm hug. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"I c-can't d-do th-that again," she stammered through her tears. "I j-just c-can't. I'm s-s-sorry."

"I know, I know, shhhh," he murmured, holding her while she sobbed. "There's nothing to be sorry for, my friend. You did everything in your power and … and I understand that you don't want to be caught in such a tragic situation again. Shh, Sarah. It's okay. It's okay."

Gradually, she calmed and drew away from him. Her expression was tight and her tone was bitter as she said in a breathless rush, "Ignorance killed her and her poor baby. Ignorance and blind, stupid, cruel hate. I can't stand those people, Doc. I feel bad for her, and it was terrible to watch her die like that, but … but they're mean-spirited. About you. About the Browns and Mr. Banks and Mr. Taggart, and even about Miz Conner and poor Maisie, who's only doing her best. They're reaping their own harvest. If they weren't so pig-headed, Lorelei and her baby wouldn't've died. I'm sure of it. And, and Ambrose? I heard him sayin' to Reese Samuels that it was _my_ fault. That they should never have trusted me. He said that if he'd been called in sooner, he would've been able to help, maybe. I was furious! Maybe if I knew more, had more experience, maybe … but that's not the point! I told them they needed a real doctor. They needed you. But they wouldn't listen!" Her voice broke and she pressed his handkerchief to her mouth.

"Sarah, I'm so sorry you had to deal with all that," Blair replied, trying to maintain his own veneer of calm though he felt a knot of futile anger in his chest and a good deal of guilt for having placed her in such an impossible situation. She hadn't wanted to deal with the settlers, but he'd encouraged both her and Delores to keep doing what they could to help. And now this. "You did everything you could. And more. You stayed with her to give what comfort you could right until the end. That's hard. I know that's hard. You're a good, kind woman." Glancing at Delores, he added, "Both of you are."

Rising, he looked off across her vegetable garden to the prairie beyond. "But, sometimes, all we can do isn't enough. There's no guarantee if they had called me that I would have been able to do any better. Sometimes … sometimes tragedies like this just happen."

"Sorry, Doc," Delores said fiercely, "but I'm not buying it. Sarah's right. If they weren't so all-fired stupid and mean, if they'd called you, this wouldn't've happened. I'm done with 'em, too. I can't abide them and their ideas. I can't."

Crossing his arms and bowing his head, Blair didn't know what to say. The settlers, for all their wrong-headedness, were just people, people who needed help like any others. It tore him apart that they wouldn't let him help, wouldn't trust his skills and knowledge, and … and people like this young Lorelei and her innocent child had died for want of his care. All because he was born a Jew. Shaking his head, he wished he had it in him to keep encouraging these two women to continue offering their skills, because they could do so much good. But he'd already done that and now this had happened. Sarah would carry those painful memories with her for the rest of her life. He couldn't force them to help, and he couldn't force the settlers to come to him. "I'm sorry," he said again, low and sorrowfully. "I'm sorry this happened."

"Doc, you have nothing to be sorry for," Sarah objected. "None of this is your fault."

"It's not your fault, either, Sarah," he said with a small, sad smile. "I would have spared you that, if I could have. You were only there in the first place because I asked you to keep doing what you could to help the settlers."

She broke eye contact and her shoulders slumped. "You're disappointed in me. For giving up. For not wanting to help them anymore."

"No, no," he protested, once again dropping down beside her. "I couldn't be prouder of either of you. You've both done your best. You've both done tremendous good for a lot of women and their babies. Please, Sarah, don't misunderstand me. I know that … that you're angry and frustrated. So am I. I wish they would let us help them, but they won't. We can't force that help upon them. It's their choice. I put you in an impossible situation; there are always cases where a doctor is needed, but I've been sending both of you knowing you wouldn't be able to call on me, and that wasn't fair, not to either of you. Believe me, I understand your decision to only work with women when you know you can call on me if necessary."

He could see the tension ease from both of them. "What matters right now is that you know you did your best and you gave what comfort you could. That's what I want you to remember about what happened. You did your best."

She sniffed and nodded. Reaching out to touch his arm, she murmured, "I had a good teacher." Giving his handkerchief a rueful glance, she said, "I'll put this in the wash and bring it back to you in a couple days."

"Ah, don't worry about that," he assured her. "I've got a drawer full of them. So … are you okay?"

She nodded again. "I'm glad you came by, Doc. It helps to know you don't think there was anything else I could have done. It was all just so … so wasteful, I guess. So unnecessary. Stupid and tragic."

"Part of the physician's oath is to do no harm. You did no harm and, in this case, that was all they allowed you to do," he offered, avoiding any more direct comment about her judgment about the deaths. Though he understood and even shared her view, voicing aloud the sentiment, blaming the young woman for her own death and her husband for the loss of his wife and child felt too harsh, even cruel. Deliberately changing the subject, he asked, "What about your other cases? Is there anything either of you wanted to discuss with me? Anything that worries you?"

For the next twenty minutes, he listened to their reports, offered advice, and got them firmly focused on the future rather than the pain of the immediate past. When he left, they were both much more cheerful, their anger and frustration distanced by the discussion.

As he headed back toward his office, he wished he'd been as successful in distancing his own anguish and sense of helplessness. On the way, he stopped to check on an elderly couple who had found the summer's relentless heat exhausting. He ensured they were bouncing back, now that the air was cooler, at least at night. And he discreetly confirmed that they were getting help from their neighbors to stock their larder for the long winter ahead. But, after he left them, his thoughts returned to the settlers and their prejudices, to Milt Ambrose and his unwillingness to seek assistance when it was needed; more, his apparent inclination to blame others – or God – for his own incapacity. He felt angry and frustrated, and … hurt, he supposed, that his name, his heritage, could inspire such hatred. Deep in thought as he skirted around the edge of the schoolyard, he didn't immediately notice the shift in the tone of the usual shouting of the kids.

"Stop that! Take it back!" a familiar young voice sang out angrily.

"Ah won't! He's evil; momma says we all hafta ward him off else he'll steal our souls!"

Blair turned to see Rose shriek with inarticulate fury and haul off to smack a boy considerably bigger than she was. The boy roared and dove at her, driving her to the ground, where they squirmed and scuffled, hitting one another.

"Whoa!" Blair yelled, diving into the fray to separate them. "What's going on here?" he demanded when he had them both up and their feet, holding them each firmly by the arm.

Rose gave the boy a sullen look, her eyes flashing with anger. "Don't matter," she muttered. "He's jes stupid, is all."

But the boy was tugging fiercely, trying to get away from him. "Lemme go!" he shouted, quite obviously terrified. "Don' eat me! Don' kill me! Lemme go!"

"Eat you?" Blair echoed, astonished. Loosening his grip, he let the boy scramble away from him. "What are you talking about? I wouldn't ever hurt a child."

"Tha's not true!" the whelp challenged hysterically, tears blurring his eyes. "Ya'll killed my brother! Burned him up!"

"Jo-Jo!" Marnie shouted, taking the boy by the shoulders. "Hush up! You're being silly and creating a fuss. This is Doctor Sandburg and he saves children who are sick. He never hurts anyone!"

"He's a devil!" Jo-Jo shrieked, holding up his hand to circle his fingers and thumb to make the sign to ward off evil. "Don' let 'im touch me!"

"Marnie, I'm sorry," Blair stammered. "I was just passing by and –"

"Don't you apologize, Doc Sandburg!" Marnie cut in, flushing with embarrassment and anger. "You didn't do anything wrong." She gave the boy a firm shake. "Stop your yelling right now!" she commanded, and Jo-Jo subsided into a sulk. "I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap, is what I'm going to do." Glancing at Rose, she sighed. "Rose, you oughtn't to start fights. You know better. You come and get me when there's a problem, y'hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rose murmured, but she gave Jo-Jo a cold look. "But _he_ started it."

"You go on in and write out twenty times, 'I will not fight'," Marnie directed firmly, "and I'll check your notebook to see that you did."

"Yes, ma'am," Rose replied with evidently hard-won docility. Her lips tightened briefly, but she looked up at Blair with wide sorrowful eyes. "Ah'm sorry, Doc. 'Bout what he sayed. T'isn't right."

"No, it isn't," Blair agreed as he knelt beside the child and fondly cupped her cheek. "But you don't have to fight for me, Rose. I'm a big boy and silly words can't hurt me, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered with a solemn nod. "He jes made me so mad."

"I know, sweetheart. I know," Blair allowed. "Thank you for worrying about me, but Miss MacDonald is right. Fighting isn't the answer. Go on in, now, and do what she says, okay?"

She nodded again and, with a defiant look at Jo-Jo, she gave Blair a quick hug and then whirled away to run into the schoolhouse.

"His brother?" he asked Marnie, sick to death that this was another Watson child.

Marnie flushed and scowled at the boy. "His older brother, Lucas, was one of the men who attacked you last summer. Lucas Tremayne was the oldest – sixteen years older than Jo-Jo here; old enough to know better'n to do what they did." Looking up, she met his eyes. "They were _all_ old enough to know better. What they did was terrible an' what happened wasn't any of your fault, that's for sure."

Jo-Jo flashed her a sullen look before glaring at Blair. "Was too yer fault. If'n you weren't here, Lucas would still be alive."

Before Blair could think of a response, Cherie sidled up and took his hand. "He says stuff 'bout us, too, Doc," she confided with a worried sideways glance at Jo-Jo. "Him an' the others. Says mean things about us an' momma and poppa."

Blair frowned and looked to Marnie for a response.

"I tell them it's wrong," she said, sounding close to forlorn, clearly exhausted by her evidently fruitless attempts to address the bigotry the settlers' kids perpetuated. "But the children, their parents … they're just spouting what they hear at home."

Blair cupped Cherie's head with his palm as Marnie hauled Jo-Jo toward the well. Once again he dropped to one knee, his gaze traveling the yard and taking in the hostile and frightened expressions on too many small, pinched faces before he met Cherie's troubled gaze. "Does anyone here hurt you?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "Shove us, sometimes, me 'n Rose, when Miss MacDonald ain't watchin', tha's all."

"You still like coming to school?"

"Mostly," she replied with a little shrug.

"Okay," he murmured, his thumb stroking her pudgy cheek. "Don't you pay any attention to any of the stuff they say, okay? They're just being stupid. You're a good girl, Cherie, and so is Rose. I'm proud of both of you. But if anyone ever hurts you, you tell Miss MacDonald right away. And you tell your parents and Sheriff Jim and me, too. We'll make sure it never happens again."

She gave him a wide-eyed look. "Would Sheriff Jim put them in jail?" she asked breathlessly, sounding as if she was caught between how exciting the idea was … and how scary.

"No, no," he replied, a bit startled by the question, though he couldn't say it didn't appeal to him at least as a kind of shock treatment for the little creeps. "Sheriff Jim would never put little kids in jail. We'd have to decide what to do, but probably they'd be sent home and wouldn't be allowed back at school until they apologized to you."

"Oh," she murmured, sounding disappointed by the very ordinary idea. But she perked up and piped with gruesome delight, "Maybe you could turn them into frogs!"

Blinking in astonished shock – her eager suggestion sparking memories of that morning in the school when he'd been fighting to get Jim to breathe, the Watson boy's comments … and all of the horror that followed later that day – Blair felt a sudden surge of nausea. Struggling for composure, he told himself she was only innocently repeating what she'd heard him say, but he queasily wondered how often his thoughtless words got bandied around in the playground.

"Honey, you _know_ no one can turn another person into a _frog!_ " he finally replied, forcing himself to smile, to make it all a joke. "That's just _impossible_." He tickled her lightly, making her giggle, and then directed, "Go on, go and play. Just stay away from the mean kids. Won't be long and you'll be called back into class."

She gave him a gap-toothed smile, a quick hug, and hustled away to play with her friends. Blair stood for a moment, looking at the other children, the ones who glared at him or cowered in fear, and at their surreptitious signs to ward him off. Shaking his head, he sighed as he turned on his heel and continued on his way.

He wondered if Henri and Hannah knew their girls were getting shoved and called names at school. Wondered, if they did, if they were as angry about their helplessness as he was? More, he suspected. God, he didn't know how he'd contain his rage if it were his children being taunted. It had been all he could do to walk away without asking exactly who called them names or shoved them around. But he'd had to let it go because, if he hadn't, he wasn't sure what he would have done. And they were only children, as Marnie had said, spewing ignorance and poison they'd learned at home. If he let his anger show, if he acted on it, he'd only be fulfilling the ugly things they heard about him, only feeding their fear.

Looking up at the wide, prairie sky, the endless blue, he wondered how parents could nurture such hate in their children. Wondered how any of them would ever learn to cope with it without wanting to strike back. But, as he stared at the sky, the import of all that had happened that day hit him. People were dying because of the hate. An innocent baby hadn't even gotten a chance to be born because of their fear and contempt for him. Dear God, _an eight-year-old child_ who had more than enough to deal with in contending with the crap directed at her and her sister had gotten into a fight to defend _him!_

His eyes blurred and he stumbled. Nausea twisted in his gut and bile rose up to choke him. Hurrying now across the open square, his hand pressed to his mouth, he rushed around the side of the saloon, to the back, barely making it before, leaning one hand against the rough wooden building, he retched again and again.

_You killed my brother!_

_Says mean stuff about us, an' about momma and poppa._

_I had to w-watch her die …_

_I hate them._

_Can't abide them …_

_Don't eat me!_

_Frogs …_

_A child fighting to protect him …_

He gasped for breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Panting, he kicked dirt over the mess and then, turning away, he stumbled quickly toward the creek. Once there, he hunkered down on his heels on the bank and cupped his hand in the water, to splash his face. He still felt shaky when he stood and continued along the bank toward home, seeking sanctuary but knowing there was none, not really. His mind gave him no rest, the voices swirling, taunting and tormenting, and emotions cramped in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Blair didn't know what to do; didn't know how to rid himself of the horror he felt. So much, so much guilt and fear about those men who'd died, about a power he didn't understand; so much helplessness to change how those people thought and acted, to change the choices they made that cost so damned much and hurt so many people; so … so much fury and despair that Rose and Cherie were not only suffering the abuse but felt they had to take on even more, to stand up for him.

_Was too yer fault. If'n you weren't here, Lucas would still be alive._

Tears again scalded his eyes. There was a twisted truth in what that kid had said. If he wasn't there, then, yeah, the boy's brother and others would still be alive. But … if he left, the people who still trusted him wouldn't have decent medical care. If he wasn't there, Rose wouldn't have to get into fights to defend him. But if he left, what good would it really do? Those people would still hold their ugly prejudices. He'd be abandoning his friends.

But God, he hated it. Hated all of it. And he felt so damned tired. So helpless to change anything.

Once he was behind their house, he couldn't face going inside; couldn't risk anyone coming to the office and finding him so distraught. Stopping in the shadows of the trees, staring at the water and trying to pull himself together, he leaned his shoulder against the smooth bark of an aspen. Struggling to catch his breath, fighting the tears, he slid down and, huddling into himself, wrapped his arms around his body.

"Doc? Oh, Doc." Maisie's gentle voice broke into his thoughts, and her hand came to rest on his shoulder.

Mortified, he turned his face away from her, and didn't trust his voice to speak.

She eased down beside him and simply sat quietly for a long while. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle. "I was taking one of my walks, down around the church, an' I saw and heard what happened. I … I followed you, to see if you were okay, 'cause I could see you were hit hard by what that little monster, Jo-Jo, said."

"It's okay," he replied, keeping his voice as steady as he could but still not able to face her. "I'm fine."

"No, honey, you're not fine. You're hurting bad."

God, what a time for Maisie to confront him with her all-too-perceptive empathy. And she was right; too obviously right to deny. But this wasn't her problem, and he didn't want even a friend seeing him like this. But … she _was_ right. He hurt bad. Real bad.

Desperate to pull himself together, to give some explanation that was true but wouldn't reveal too much, he blew a shuddering breath and replied in muted, strained tones, "It's, uh, it's just been a hard day. Sarah Sloan lost a mother and baby this morning in the settlement because … because they wouldn't let her call me to help." But once started, he couldn't seem to stop himself, and the deeper hurt poured out. "And … Rose … _Rose_ was fighting to defend _me_. She's just a little kid. She shouldn't have to … have to…" His voice cracked. Humiliated, he hunched more into himself.

Maisie edged closer to wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders. "It's high time somebody did. Rose puts us all to shame. We sit back and wring our hands, and allow them to say and do terrible mean things, all 'cause they got rights to their own sorry opinions. But it ain't right, Doc. I'm sick to death of this town and the hurt bein' done."

When he didn't respond, she sighed and looked out over the gurgling creek. Her tone was reflective when she continued, "I remember the day you walked into this town, a living, breathing miracle come to save us from that awful disease. You've got a gift, Doc. More'n one, comes to that. But do you even realize that not one single soul in this town has died from anything but old age since you arrived? Not one, 'cept for the outlaws who force you men to shoot 'em down, an' those idiot settlers, who won't have no truck with you. Like I say, you got a gift for healin', the like I've never seen in all my born days. Mostly, I guess, it's 'cause you're darned good at what you do."

When his silence persisted, she went on more hesitantly, "But … I think it's more'n that, Doc. I think … I _believe_ … the Good Lord works through some folks, gives them the power to work miracles. An' I think God has blessed you with that gift, 'cause you can be _trusted_ with it. You're just about the best man I've ever known; sure the most caring 'bout simple folks. An' I know right well that even when you can't heal 'em no more 'cause they're just too old an' tired, that you sit with 'em, and hold their hands, givin' 'em comfort and easing 'em on their journey." Her grip around his shoulders tightened, and her voice was rough with emotion as she admitted, "I was never blessed with any children, but if I'd had a son, I'd be right proud if he was even half as good as you. You've given your heart an' soul to this town, Doc. An' I can see what it costs you – it's like you share bits of yourself and you're plum wore out."

"Miracles?" he echoed and shuddered with the memory of those men who had burned to death. "Those are kind words, Maisie. Too kind. I'm just a little tired," he rasped past the lump in his throat, very touched but embarrassed by her words, certain he in no way deserved any such tribute. "I'll be fine. Really, you … you don't have to worry about me."

"An' if that ain't just like a man, pretendin' he has to be strong all the darned time," she chided, warm humor in her voice. "I saw what you did, that day Cherie got trampled," she said then, serious again. "I _know_ what you did."

He stiffened and shifted to try to draw away from her, but she held him close to her side. "An' I was in the saloon durin' the trial, an' I heard what you said about what happened out there. I saw how broken-up you were, an' I've been worryin' about you for weeks now," she went on, kind but persistent. "I think you're scared, Doc. I think you're afraid you did something out there."

"Maisie, please …" he begged, unable to deal with any more and afraid of losing his composure completely.

"I'm here to tell you that I don't think you did anythin' at all," she insisted stoutly. "I think God sent his angels to wreak justice that day. And Bless Him for doing it, too. No man has the power to raise a child from the dead, lessen God sends that power through him. And no man can order the wind – only God can do that, child. Don't be takin' on more'n what's yours to bear. You didn't tie yourself to that stake, and you sure'n blazes didn't light that fire. You weren't the one who was destined to die that day, 'cause you're still _needed_ on this earth."

Sighing, he gave up hoping she'd just let it drop and leave him be. He rubbed his eyes and reached down deep for the composure to answer her. "I appreciate what you're saying, I really do," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so rough and broken. "I just … I can't talk about this stuff. Whatever happened out there that day, nobody _deserves_ to die like that." Lifting his head, looking at the water rushing past and hoping to redirect her thoughts away from what happened with Cherie and … and the others, he went on, "Ever since Jim and me got back from the west, it's been hard. You're right. The town has changed. But there are still a whole lot of good people here."

"Uh huh," she agreed. "But I'm not sure that's enough. Enough to stay. Enough to put up with the rest of it."

When he again stiffened, her words too close to his own doubts, she went on softly, "You don't owe anyone here a blessed thing, Doc. You blew in here like a breath of fresh air, just when we needed you most. An' you've stayed an' done a whole lot of good. But … it's wearin' you down. I can see it. Everyone can see it, though you're doin' your best to pretend everythin's just fine whenever anyone's lookin'. Times change. People move on. Sure, you could keep helpin' people here. But you could do just as much good somewhere else, someplace where they don't spit at you when you walk by, don't curse you because they're fools. Truth is, I don't think the Browns should be stayin', neither. I'm not sure it's safe for them. Kincaid might be gone, but the poison is still here an' it ain't goin' away."

He nodded slowly. "I'm afraid you might be right about that. But if we just give up, how will anything ever change?"

"Well, that's a good question," she allowed pensively. "I been thinkin' about that, too, an' I sure don't have any answers. All I know is, I used to love livin' here an' now … well, now I don't. An' there're too many of 'em. They scare me, an' life's both hard enough and too short to be livin' it afraid. There's still places to go that maybe aren't perfect, not by a long shot, but're better'n here. Guess it's too late to pull out this year; winter's too close to be settin' up somewhere's new. But, but I've decided that if things don't change, I'm goin' to the Black Hills in the spring." She patted his shoulder. "Guess I just don't want to go without my favorite customer – not to mention, I don't have no idea what kind of doctors, if any, they got there. Lord help me if they're all like Ambrose."

He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips at her soulful tone. Tilting his head to look at her, he teased, "Ah, so that's your plan. You're trying to tempt me into going with you."

She grinned at him. "Ah, ya caught me far and square. I'd be a mite happier and easier in my mind about goin' if'n you and the Sheriff were goin', too. From what my nephew tells me, they could use a good lawman in those parts, just about as much as they could use a good cook and a good doctor. So, is my plan workin'? Ya think ya might tag along?"

Gazing at her open, kind face, seeing the affection and concern for him in her eyes, he admitted, "It's a tempting idea, Maisie. Not sure how Jim and I'd make it here without you spoiling us the way you do. Where'd we get our bread?"

She laughed and leaned on his shoulder to lever herself to her feet. Gazing down at him, her expression softened into vulnerability. "I'm sorry if I over-stepped my bounds here today. I know you wanted some quiet time alone. You're not the sort to burden other folks with your hurts. But … but I love ya, Doc, like you were my own boy. Silly, I guess. But I could see you were hurtin', have been hurtin' for a while now, and it t'ain't fair. The way they carry on, the things they do an' say – you deserve better'n that. Pains me to see you sufferin'." Her eyes glistened and, swiping at them, she turned her face away. "I jes … I jes couldn't bear no more, not without sayin' something. Rose has got the right of it, you know. You're worth fightin' for. An' bless her little heart, so is she and all the rest of her family."

"Ah, Maisie," he whispered, rising to draw her into a hug. Deeply touched, he held her close. "I love you, too, you know? I just … I just don't want to be the cause of anyone's fights. You're right – it's getting to me, all of it. I don't know what to do, not yet, anyway, but you've helped me feel better. So, don't worry, my girl; you haven't overstepped any bounds. I'm glad you followed me. Glad you cared enough, and I'm grateful."

"Well, then, that's good," she replied, patting him on the chest and then drawing away. "You think on what I said, y'hear?"

"I will," he promised as he turned to walk with her toward the house and the street beyond. Looking up at the sky, he said, "And, maybe, things'll get better over the winter. I'd sure hate to see you go."

"No harm in hopin' for the best," she said, sounding doubtful, though, that hope would be enough.

Not at all sure, either, he ushered her through the house to the front door. "Thanks, Maisie. You've given me a lot to think about," he assured her as she stepped out onto the boardwalk.

She studied his face for a moment, and then nodded. "Just remember, Doc. You don't owe anybody anything. You do what's right for _you_ to do." Before he could say anything further, she turned away to bustle back to her shop.

Watching her until she was inside, he thought about that. When he closed the door, he looked around at the place that had become his home … and then sternly reminded himself that home wasn't a place. "I wonder what Jim would think about the Black Hills?" he murmured wearily as he raked back his hair and headed into his office. Sagging into his chair, he rubbed his temples to ease the headache that had started sometime that morning. Leaning forward, his elbows on the desk and his face in his hands, he thought a lot about the morning and everything Maisie had said.

_Don' be takin' on more'n what's yours to bear._

Simple, homespun wisdom. He thought it was the best piece of advice he'd ever been given and, gradually, the knot in his chest eased a little. With a sigh, he sat back and pushed his hair behind his ears. The fact was, he was a man and it was his responsibility to deal with his problems, but he wasn't the only one contending with ignorance and hate. Hell, he should be used to it by now … but those two little girls were at risk and their safety, both emotional and physical, had to be his first concern.

Rising, he left the house and crossed the street, to tell Henri what had happened in the schoolyard.

* * *

When Jim got home that night, Blair told him what had happened that day, not just in the schoolyard, but with Sarah, as well. He tried to keep it matter-of-fact; but his voice caught and, swiftly turning away to hide the depth of his hurt, he faltered to a stop.

"Ah, Chief," Jim rasped, as if his heart was breaking. He came up close and, gently, so gently, turned Blair back to face him, and drew him into a warm, strong embrace, holding him until Blair's arms came up to hug him back.

And still, Jim held on. "I'm sorry," Jim whispered into his curls. "I'm so damned sorry I can't make them stop; can't … can't just run them off. But none of it is your fault, Chief. None of it. Be angry; hell, hate the damn settlers. But don't let them hurt you. Don't let them tear you apart."

Blair drew a shuddering breath. "Don't be taking on more than what's yours to bear," he murmured, offering Maisie's advice in his turn. "None of this is your fault, either, man. It just is, Jim. It just is."

"Fuck that," Jim cursed with unusual vehemence. "Tell me when, Chief. Just tell me when, and we'll be outta here so damned fast, they won't see us for dust."

"Ah, man," Blair sighed as the band around his chest loosened. His partner's unconditional, unswerving, and unequivocal support warmed him all the way through, and he couldn't help a small smile of relief. "We'll be okay. No matter how bad it gets, or how hard, they can't touch us, not in any way that matters. We'll be okay."

Jim's embrace tightened briefly and then eased, but he didn't let go until Blair drew away, once again strong enough to stand sturdily on his own.

* * *

After another week of pushing, shoving and name-calling, of settlers complaining that their kids shouldn't be punished for having the good sense to not want to share a classroom with 'them darkies', and the Browns and the Sheriff expressing concern about the safety of their girls, Marnie MacDonald decided peace wasn't attainable, not as things stood. Using the size of the too-large class as an excuse, claiming there were just too many children to work with all at once, she began teaching the kids from town in the mornings and the settlers' children in the afternoons. None of the parents were happy that their children were obtaining only half of the learning they'd been given previously, but she explained and explained that there seemed no other alternative to ensure both safety and harmony in the classroom and schoolyard.

Her explanations didn't satisfy the likes of the Tuckers in town, or any of the settlers, no matter how many times she reiterated her reasons. In addition to the harangues about her responsibilities as a teacher delivered in person, she began to receive increasingly strident letters of complaint – more, it seemed, with each passing day – until she began to loathe going to the school every morning.

One day about two weeks after the class had been divided, when Jim arrived to pick up the girls, as usual, he found a belligerent crowd of dissatisfied parents, mostly settlers but with a goodly smattering of townsfolk. For the first time, he fully understood the pressure being brought to bear upon their young schoolmarm. Poor Marnie looked like a trapped deer on the school's narrow porch, her back to the door. Her face was flushed, tears glistened in her eyes, and he could hear her heart racing as they shouted over her attempts to reason with them.

Pushing through the crowd to stand beside her, he bellowed, "Enough! I won't permit mob intimidation of anyone, at any time, and certainly not of a woman doing her best to teach your kids! This disgraceful exhibition is over. Go home!"

"Ya got no rights here, Sheriff!" a man yelled back. "Ain't like you got any kids who're not getting' a decent education! So ya'll just mosey on along and we'll take care o' this."

The crowd rumbled its agreement and some waved their fists. Encouraged, another cried out, "This here's a democracy an' that means majority rules. Well, we rule that our chillen get their learnin' all day!"

"An' we don' want no pickanninies in the school, neither!"

Marnie was sobbing, and Jim sorely wanted to shoot the ugly louts. He moved to shelter her with his body and murmured, "You go on inside. When they're gone, I'll walk you and the girls home."

"N-no," she stammered, her voice rising, and he realized she was angry as well as scared. "NO!" she yelled more forcefully as she pushed past him and, her arms akimbo, faced the surly crowd. "I _hate_ you, all of you. You're mean, nasty people and you've taught your children to be the same. I'm fed up with the lot of you, and there's not enough money in the world to put up with what you dish out. I QUIT! This school is closed!"

With that, she stormed down the steps and began pushing her way through the crowd. Taken aback by her unusual show of spirit, the first few fell back to let her through. But others took umbrage at her words and plucked at her arms, arguing with her, telling her she had no call to say those things. Disgusted, Jim called to Rose and Cherie to wait inside for him, and stomped down the steps. Drawing her into the circle of one strong arm, he fended off those who tried to stop them from leaving.

When the crowd still pressed in on them, he roared, "Back off, or I swear I'll shoot the next person who touches her!"

By then, others of the town had gathered, including Blair, Henri Brown, Silas McCready, Moe Gurney, and Marnie's father, Angus. When the crowd around Jim and Marnie failed to fall away, several of the men fired rifles into the air, bringing a shocked silence.

"You let my girl pass," Angus growled, his rifle leveled now on the miscreants.

The crowd grumbled resentfully, but edged back enough that Jim could hustle Marnie to her father's side. Turning back to face the troublemakers, he shouted, "We're done here. GO HOME!"

Sullenly, someone called, "Who's gonna teach our chillen?"

"Well, I guess that's your problem," Jim said with an angry edge of sarcasm. "Not having any kids of my own, I don't much care."

Kids came tentatively out of the school to join their folks, and the disgruntled parents finally started to move off. Brown turned to Angus and Marnie. "I'm sorry," he rasped, both angry and humiliated. "This wouldn'a happened if I hadn't kept sending my girls to school. I'm real sorry, Miss MacDonald, that it's been so hard on you."

Too upset to talk, Marnie just shook her head.

"This wasn't your fault, Henri," Angus muttered, as he held his daughter close, and patted her back. "Them folks brought this on themselves." Shaking his head, he said, "C'mon, girl, let's get you home."

While Angus escorted his still weeping daughter back toward their living quarters above the general store, the other men stood and watched the schoolyard empty.

"Angus is right, H," Jim told him. "Your girls have as much right to an education as any of the rest of them."

"Maybe so," Brown sighed despondently as he turned away. "But now nobody is going to get any teachin'." Henri left them to jog slowly across the open ground to retrieve his daughters.

Once he was out of earshot, Blair said, "You know what this means, right? There's no one else in town who can take over the school. The married women don't have the time."

"Yeah, I know," Jim growled, his expression bleak. "One of _them_ will take it over, claiming the right to ensure their children get their schooling. And it will be a school for white kids only."

Moe and Silas looked at them and frowned but didn't offer an opinion. Jim glanced at them and, knowing they both had school age children, muttered, "Guess you'll do what you have to do."

Their expressions tightened but, reluctantly, they nodded as they turned back to the saloon.

"I'm beginning to really hate this town," Jim grated.

Two days later, the school reopened with a new schoolmarm from the settlement and, as Jim had predicted, the Brown children were barred from attending. Blair added the tutoring of Cherie and Rose to his daily schedule. One afternoon, Cherie asked, "Doc, why do they all hate us so, jus' 'cause we're a diff'rent color?"

"Cause they's stupid," Rose snapped, anger covering her own hurt.

"Is that true, Doc?" Cherie persisted.

Glancing at Hannah, who looked around from the counter where she was preparing the noon meal, Blair wished he could give a simple answer. Lifting Cherie onto his knee, he said, "There are people in this world who think they're better than other people. Some think because they're rich, they're better than the poor. Some who are white think they're better than folks who aren't. Some who are church-goers think anyone who worships differently is wrong. Some men think they're better than women. Are any of them right? No, they're not; they're wrong. What matters is what's in your heart, how you live as a good person, doing your best, helping people in need as much as you can, being generous and kind, and strong and brave. You can't make people like you, and you can't change their minds when they're already made up. But no matter what anyone ever says, you just have to go on being as good a person as you can be, being proud of who you are. Do you understand?"

"Ah'm a good girl, Doc," Cherie said very seriously. "Ah always do my best."

"I know you are, sweetheart; and so is Rose a very good girl. I'm very proud of both of you."

Cherie snuggled in for a hug. Rose looked up at him with her too-old eyes. "We're proud of you, too," she said. "Proud to know you; proud you're our friend."

Blair's throat tightened and he swallowed hard as he nodded. "I know. And I'm grateful, Rose. Thank you. Your good opinion means a great deal to me."

Her solemn eyes brightened and, giving him a wide smile, she hugged him, too.

Holding both girls close, Blair looked up at Hannah, who gave him a shy smile. The expression in her eyes was rich in understanding, mingling both pride and sorrow, before she turned away and went back to her cooking.

* * *

Emboldened by their success in conquering the school, and with the time afforded by the end of the harvests, the settlers began to spend more time in town; visiting, shopping, gossiping, selling their produce and fresh-slaughtered mutton at the store, and resuming attendance at the church. A cobbler set up a small shop, and then another settler opened a leather goods store to rival the one adjacent to Henri's stable. It seemed to Blair that there was no time during the day or evening, when more of the men rode in to drink at the saloon, when he could walk around town without being confronted by evil glances and glares, and sometimes physical shoving as he went about his rounds. Though he got the very occasional call to go out to nearby farms or small ranches, his patients tended to either come into town or do without his care – and he was afraid they were being harassed by the settlers around them.

Pastor Stevens insisted that the Browns continue to attend his church, and they appreciated it, but by the end of October, they decided the weekly experience was too draining and too upsetting for their girls. But the Pastor continued to visit them, praying with them and telling the girls stories from the Bible. And, Jim and Blair heard, he continued to preach tolerance, compassion and brotherly love, refusing to condone or remain mute in the face of his parishioners' antipathy for the clear messages he gave them.

Jim knew that Dan Raymond was still receiving poison pen letters, and some of the more aggressive men had begun to argue with him on the street and in the church about what he did print in his paper. Urseline Tucker continued to share her poisonous views with anyone who would listen.

Blair and Henri had taken to going to the general store together to do their weekly shopping. Brown didn't want Hannah exposed any more than necessary to the virulent nastiness of what many people didn't hesitate to say. One day in November, Angus took them aside and quietly offered to make up their orders and deliver them so they wouldn't have to come into the store anymore … or, he suggested, they could come to the back door and he would serve them personally.

Blair and Henri stiffened at the suggestions. Glancing at one another, both understanding that Angus was only trying to make things easier for them, Brown nodded to Blair to respond. "You're kind to make such offers, Angus," he said carefully, not wanting to offend the older man, though he knew Henri had been as insulted as he was by the idea that they lurk outside the back, waiting to be served. "And we both appreciate it. But … but, no. Thank you, but no. So long as you'll have us as customers, we'll continue to do our shopping like everyone else."

"Aye, well, suit yourselves. There's no question that I welcome your custom; always have, always will," he said with a sigh. "Bothers me, though, the way some of them carry on. Neither of you should have to listen to it."

Blair smiled and patted the older man on the shoulder. "We've both heard it all before, Angus. But we're grateful for your concern and your support. It helps; helps a lot."

For the first time, Blair welcomed the cold that settled in with the snow in December; it was too bitter for the settlers to wander into town unless they had specific errands to run, and even Urseline was staying indoors. The men still rode in at night, though, to frequent the saloon and, for the first time, he witnessed one of the altercations between Dan and a drunken lout who had stumbled down to the newspaper office to air his grievances. Chilled by more than the cold as he stood by and watched Jim send the settler on his way, he wondered how long it would be before whiskey gave one of these men the courage to do more than hurl words.

Chanukah approached, Christmas looming not far behind. Blair set up his menorah in the back bedroom so his ritual celebration of the Miracle of the Light with the lighting of the candles wouldn't be witnessed from the street. Jim didn't look happy about the change in tradition the first evening, but he held his peace.

However, the next morning over breakfast he asked, "What about a Christmas tree for your office? You want to forget it this year?"

Blair sat back and thought about it. "No," he finally replied, though without much enthusiasm. "The reasons for the tree, for my patients and their children, still hold. And … and just 'cause there are some who are ignorant and disrespectful is no reason for me to become like them. Besides, nominally at least, you're a Christian and it's only right that we celebrate the holiday." He paused, but then added with wry humor, "But I think we can forgo the annual Christmas pageant at the school this year."

Jim graced him with a look of dry bemusement, both of them knowing that there was no chance either of them would be invited that year. After they cleaned up the kitchen, they set out to cut two trees, one for each of their offices, and then spent the afternoon decorating them. As they worked on the tree in his office, Blair teased, "It's too bad, really, that we won't be going to the pageant. You were just getting good at remembering the words to the carols, and I enjoyed hearing you sing them."

"Yeah?" Jim challenged with an amused grin. "You like it when I sing, huh?"

"Uh huh," Blair replied with a wide smile. "You've got a nice tenor, Jim. Guess singing doesn't much go with the persona of a tough town sheriff, but … it's too bad you never sing at all."

"Okay, what's your favorite carol?" Jim asked.

"Good King Wenceslas," Blair replied with an eager lifting of his brows.

Nodding as he strung the popcorn, not surprised that his friend best liked the song that celebrated compassion and charity, Jim sang, "Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen …"

Blair hummed along happily, occasionally lending his baritone to some stanzas. They heard the front door open and faltered, but Pastor Stevens voice boomed out the next line as he stamped the snow off his boots, and they cheerfully resumed singing along with him as he joined them in the office. Beaming, he rubbed his chapped hands together and then clapped when the song ended. "Well done!" he praised them. "I heard your voices from the street as I was passing along, returning to the church after visiting with the Browns. Couldn't resist coming in to join you and to ask a favor of you. The same favor I just asked of them."

"What favor?" Blair asked, as he reached into a desk drawer and drew out a small tube of lotion. "For your hands," he said, as he handed it to the preacher.

"Ah, bless you," Pastor Stevens replied as he gladly accepted the gift and immediately rubbed some into his dry skin. "The favor? Well, I didn't want to presume that you'll attend the services this Christmas Eve," he went on, his smile fading into sad regret. "And I can more than understand why you might choose not to. But … but I'd very much appreciate it if you'd both come. As well as the Browns, I've asked Simon and Joel if they'd attend, too, and bring in all their hands who might want to participate in our celebration of Jesus' birth."

"Oh, Pastor," Blair sighed and shook his head, but he couldn't help remembering the previous year's service. He looked at Jim, who was waiting for him to make the decision for the both of them, and he once again appreciated his partner's unswerving support. He was about to refuse, but when he looked at the preacher, the hope in those kind eyes did him in. He owed this man. "Alright. We'll be there. But I hope that my presence doesn't take away from the worship. You're sure about this? The settlers..."

"I'm very sure," Pastor Stevens assured him. "Thank you. I know what I ask isn't easy … and I can't predict how things will go, but I'd very much like to have you all there. If a community cannot come together in harmony on Christmas Eve, then when will it ever be possible?" Shifting his gaze to the tree, he asked, "Now, can I help you finish the trimming? And … dare I ask if there might be some more of that wonderful hot chocolate that fills the very air I breathe?"

Chuckling, Blair patted him on the back and went to the kitchen to pour him a mug of the decadent brew. _Peace on Earth, good will towards men,_ he thought with weary discouragement, no longer able to be truly hopeful, and simply trying not to be too bitter that the amazement, warmth and acceptance he'd felt during last year's service was now but a distant memory.

* * *

None of them were particularly enthused about going to the service, but they all agreed that Pastor Stevens was a good man, and deserved to be supported in his efforts to heal the fractures in their community. Simon, Joel, and their men, along with Susanna and Jeb Strong, arrived in good time to meet the Browns and Jim and Blair outside the church. The air was crisp with winter frost and a light snow was falling as they strolled up the walk and the steps together, a good fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to start. By arriving early, they hoped to be settled in the pews before any of the settlers or antagonistic townsfolk arrived. The evening would be tense enough without having to face down hostile stares while they searched for seats in a crowded sanctuary.

Pastor Stevens greeted them with a broad smile and, though they would have chosen the back benches, he ushered them to the front, and they didn't have the heart to refuse him when he was making them so welcome. Once they were settled in two rows in the opposite corner from the entry in the back, the pastor returned to his post to greet all who arrived. Not long after, a steady stream of families began to enter the hall, their friends moving up to fill the rows behind them. Determined to be cheerful, they returned the greetings of the Sloans, the McCreadys and the Gurneys, the MacDonalds and the Raymonds. Maisie and Megan arrived together, Johnny Winston right behind them, and they all quickly joined their informal grouping on the right side of the sanctuary. Blair tried not to notice that their quiet but sociable conversation, and the higher pitched laughter of the children with them, formed an obvious counterpoint to the disapproving silence around them, as grim-looking settlers and the cohort in town that supported them filled up the pews on the left side and the rear of the little church. Mostly he was relieved that no one made a loud issue of their presence.

As the Pastor made his way to the front of the sanctuary, they all settled and faced the front, pretending not to see the scandalized glares directed their way. After the preacher had welcomed everyone, he called upon them to stand to sing the first of the evening's carols – Good King Wenceslas. Blair stood and sang with the rest, certain the Pastor had chosen the song deliberately, and touched by his thoughtfulness.

Pastor Stevens read the scriptures, his fulsome voice enlivening the gentle story of the birth of Jesus.

"Peace on Earth, good will towards men!" he exclaimed from the pulpit, his face radiant with his belief in the sanctity and hope in the message of the angels, his eyes and hands lifted toward the ceiling as if he could see them there, shining above them. "Peace on Earth, good will towards men," he repeated as his gaze lowered to roam the congregation, his tone now almost intimate and resonating with sadness as he rested his hands on the pulpit.

"Tonight, on this holiest of nights that, each year, reminds us of our chance for a new beginning, I'm not going to thunder and roar and bring the rafters down with a rousing sermon. Tonight, I just want to talk quietly with all of you about peace on earth and good will toward men. Some of us do our best every day to live that message with the hope of one day making it true for all of us. But too many of us harden our hearts against our neighbors. Tonight, as we reflect upon this great loving gift of God, the gift of his son to live amongst us, I ask each of you to think about how you would welcome Mary and Joseph if they arrived here this cold, snowy night, and knocked on your door seeking rest and safety.

"I ask this question of you with utmost seriousness and concern. For, when I see so many rejecting the Jewish doctor amongst us, I wonder, with a good deal of grief and regret, how a poor, simple Jewish carpenter and his pregnant wife would fare, and I fear that here, as in Bethlehem, they would find a good many doors closed and barred against them. I fear very much that a good many of us would revile them. And then, after their child was born into the Jewish tribe descended from King David, I wonder as well how many of us would also turn our faces away and revile those three kings, who clearly did not seem to mind at all that Jesus was born a Jew and who came bearing gifts from the east, because those kings did not have white faces. Or, in later days, when Mary and Joseph were forced to flee their homeland to save the life of their son, Jesus, I wonder if we'd even have a savior if the people on the continent of Africa, in Egypt, rejected their neighbors when they came in need, as we are inclined far too often to reject our neighbors, right here in Bitterwood Creek, rejecting them simply because they are different in some way."

Pastor Stevens sighed wearily, and shook his head as he gazed out upon them. "The angels did _not_ proclaim peace _only_ on one part of the earth – the part where white people live – or call for good will _only_ toward white men. Or perhaps, in your arrogance, you think God made a mistake in choosing Jewish people to be the patriarchs, the prophets, the writers of the psalms and proverbs, the disciples, the parents of his Son, and Jesus himself? I caution you from the depths of my heart that such arrogance will imperil your soul."

He paused, his eyes lingering on various members of his congregation, his words hanging in the air. "God created this Earth for all of us, not just for some of us. God loves all of us … not just some of us. But I fear when He looks down on Bitterwood Creek and thinks about how we've treated one another in the past few months, how we've made some of our number unwelcome, and actively reviled one of his best-loved sons as well as other beautiful and innocent children, I think God might well weep for us. And that's the best I think I could hope for right now, in this time and place; that He would weep and not simply turn His face away in anger for a too-strident piety that is hollow and debased by the hatred harbored in too many hearts, _despising_ us for our intentional meanness and cruelty."

Once again he paused, and Blair could see his eyes had glazed with tears. His voice shook with emotion as he said with slow precision, "God gave us his Son for love of us, _all_ of us. Jesus lived the whole of his too short life showing us how to treat one another with compassion and gentle kindnesses. Jesus taught us _not_ to judge. He taught us _not_ to cast stones. He constrained us to pray in private, and ordered us _not_ to draw attention to our self-righteous goodness by praying publicly for all to see. He instructed us to love our neighbors as ourselves. And yet, as I walk our streets and listen, I hear so many of you speaking in anger, berating one another, judging how others live their lives, and publicly condemning one of God's most beloved people along with many other of his beautiful and beloved children. How _dare_ you call yourselves Christians when you act with so little charity and no apparent compassion, when you so actively reject the teachings of our Lord and his Father?"

Again, he paused and he half-turned to look at the simple cross behind him, as if seeking strength or guidance. Facing them once more, he went on with solemn dignity, "Tonight, this eve when we celebrate Jesus' birth, should be a time of peace and joy, of hope and love and communion of spirit, but it is not, not even here in God's own House, for I can feel and see the antipathy of some for others amongst us. I know this is not a message many of you wish to hear, but I am here to share the Shepherd's message, to search out and find the lost lambs, and bring them back into the fold. I am deeply afraid for our community. I'm deeply afraid for many of your souls." His voice cracked and he bowed his head, visibly struggling with his emotion.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, the preacher lifted his head and held out his hands in appeal to them. "Tonight, on this holy Christmas Eve, I _beg_ you to hear the message God sent to us with his angels and made manifest in his Son. I _beg_ you to open your hearts to those around you; to rejoice and be exceedingly glad that we are all here together, praising God together. I _implore_ you to remember that God does not care about the color of our skin; He only cares about what is in our hearts, and about how we treat one another in charity and compassion. God doesn't care if we are a man or a woman. He does care about whether we give one another respect, and reach out to one another with love in our hearts. God doesn't care how we choose to worship Him, so long as we when we leave His church or meeting house or synagogue, we live the lessons He taught us – live every day so that our actions and our words make manifest His teachings. God's message is really very simple. He wants us to _love_ one another, _love our neighbors_ as ourselves."

As he listened to the poignant and very evidently heartfelt appeal, Blair bowed his head and closed his eyes. Clasping his hands together, he tried to find compassion in his heart for those who mocked and reviled him, for those who taught their children to hate. But it was hard. He felt great sorrow for those who grew up knowing no other way, but he had no idea how to … how to make anything better. Looking up at Pastor Stevens, seeing the pain and sorrow on the good man's face and shadowing his eyes, Blair bit his lip and wished he could be as good a man, as forgiving a man. Wished he had the courage to stand before the whole community, as this preacher was doing, to try to heal these wounds of the spirit. But he could hear restlessness in the church, a low thrumming of anger, and he was afraid that Pastor Steven's efforts were in vain, that his words were falling on deaf ears. But, God, he was trying. He was doing his best for him and the Browns and Simon and Joel, and for everyone, really, to express the hope God had for the world and all who dwelled upon it.

Maybe some would hear. Maybe … maybe they would _all_ leave with something to think about, something to reflect upon; some measure against which they could each examine their behaviors toward one another. Even if everyone only really heard and remembered the angels' message … things would be better than they'd been.

"Let us pray," the Pastor called. Lifting his hands and eyes to God, he asked, "Dear Lord, on this Your birthday, please gift us with eyes to see and ears to hear. Open our hearts, and fill us with the light of Your love and mercy. We are all Your children and, like children, we have become confused and lost, we argue and call one another names; we have not yet learned Your lessons by heart. Be patient with us, I pray, and with the dawn, please grant us peace here in Bitterwood Creek. Amen."

"And now let us complete our search for goodness in our souls, and in the world around us, by singing the hymn, O Holy Night." The congregation dutifully rose and sang, but many voices were strained with anger and resentment. There was no sense of joy or celebration in the sanctuary that night, and precious little hope.

When the song ended and there was again silence, Pastor Stevens lifted his hands in benediction. "This night, I will keep watch as did the shepherds of old, and I will pray for a new and glorious dawn for all of us, a Christmas morn that will bring us peace and the spirit of good will toward _all_ men and women and children amongst us. My beloved children, my precious lambs, go forth now in peace from this place, and let love guide you on your way through the darkness."

For a moment, there was only silence. And then boots scraped and clothing rustled as people stood to slide into the aisle and then, with muted, aggrieved muttering, hastened out of the sanctuary into the cold, snowy night. Subdued and silent, Blair and Jim, and their friends from the ranch and the town, waited until the others had gone. Pastor Stevens also waited, remaining behind the pulpit until most of the sanctuary was empty and the anger had seeped from the hall. There was nothing of the fiery man who had preached up a storm the year before in his visage or posture but, though he looked tired as he stepped down from the chancel, there was a quiet determination and strength in the set of his shoulders and jaw.

"Thank you, sir," Joel said quietly, reaching out to shake the preacher's hand. "I … we appreciate…"

When Joel faltered, Blair understood, for he felt the same way. It would be too easy to assume the message the Pastor had given that night was meant only for the others, the settlers and their cohort. But … hadn't they all judged all settlers the same? Had they made any effort at all to get to know any of them? It was too easy to only find fault with the others, and ignore their own failings.

But the preacher simply gave Joel a slow smile of understanding. "No, thank you, Joel – thank all of you – for coming here this evening, for what you do every day. I see you all, all year long, year in and year out, doing what you can, serving this community each in your own way, whether through the printed word, or healing, or selling provisions to nurture our bodies, lending money to help us achieve our dreams, keeping the peace, providing a place to rest, making bread, raising children … all of you doing your best to make this a good community to live within, to be good neighbors. And I see the suffering, the abuse, the unfairness, and I wish … I wish there was more I could do to make this a better place, more I could do to bring the factions together and end the suffering."

"You do plenty, Pastor," Simon rumbled. "You … you live what you preach and you've tried hard tonight to heal a lot of deep wounds, to give this community a chance to come together." He hesitated and then, tentatively, asked, "Would you like to come out to the ranch tomorrow, say around one o'clock, to share our Christmas dinner? I have to warn you, though, there'll be a crowd of us," he went on with a smile as he gestured around the group. "We're all going to be there, to celebrate together this year."

Pastor Stevens brightened at the invitation and stood a little taller. "I would very much like to join you all. Thank you," he replied with the simple eagerness of a child, and Blair suddenly realized the man had fully expected to spend that Christmas alone. For the first time since he'd come to Bitterwood Creek, he reflected upon how lonely a shepherd's life could be.

The preacher walked with them to the door and, as they left, he shook hands with most, hugged some, and wished them all a hearty good night. "I'll see you all tomorrow!" he called, sounding lighter, happier, just before he closed the door of the church to return to his vigil in the sanctuary.

Jim and Blair walked Megan and Maisie home then, Blair shivering and hunching his shoulders against the cold, hurried the last few steps to their own door. When they were inside and shrugging out of their coats, Jim said, "You seemed to be taking the preacher's words to heart tonight, Chief. But I don't think he was talking to you in particular."

Still shivering and moving into the kitchen to warm himself by the stove while he made a pot of hot chocolate, Blair replied, "I think he was talking to everyone there, Jim. Sure, the most pointed messages were directed toward the settlers and the likes of the Tuckers, but … we've been no friendlier to them than they've been to us." Glancing over his shoulder, he recalled, "From the moment we got back into town, we've seen them as trouble, as the 'enemy'. And, yeah, with reason. But we didn't make an effort to get to know them, to find out if they all feel the same way."

Grimacing, Jim nodded grudgingly. "Fair enough. But..."

"There're always reasons for not doing things, always rationales to rest upon," Blair cut in. Reaching for a spoon to stir the heating libation, he gave Jim a small smile. "I'm not arguing with you. Really, I'm not. I just don't think any of us can afford to see ourselves as entirely blameless from the perspective that Pastor Stevens was arguing tonight. About the only person in town who really tried to make things work, to have a … a common ground between both sides, was Marnie. But the divisions between philosophies and belief systems pretty much doomed the effort, because nobody was really trying to see and understand the other perspective."

"Oh, come on," Jim challenged. "You can't be saying that we should have tried to understand and accept their callous bigotry?"

"No, no, I'm not saying that I think their views have merit. I don't. But maybe trying to talk to them, trying to get to know them so that … well, so that I'm not just a Jew and the others aren't just black, but are real people, just like them, might have … I don't know … maybe helped them to see us as people and not as things."

Sighing, Jim sat down at the table. "Well, in theory, maybe you have a point. But the way it all played out, I'm not sure when the chance to 'get to know them' ever happened. Kincaid was threatening me, the construction workers were rampaging through town, there were already problems with Henri being a deputy and with his kids going to the school, and hell, three days after we were back, they came after you. Little hard to turn the other cheek after they stoned you and tried to murder you."

"Yeah," Blair murmured as he stirred the hot chocolate to keep the mixture from thickening and burning at the bottom of the pot. "But if I understand the Christian teaching about that, the time to turn the other cheek is specifically after having been unfairly abused."

"You're not a Christian," Jim replied, his tone dry.

"No, but there is value in what Jesus taught, even if I only regard him as a prophet and a very wise man."

"Is this conversation going anywhere, Sandburg, or is this just one of your philosophical ramblings?" Jim asked, sounding tired.

Blair didn't say anything while he filled two mugs and transferred them to the table. Sitting down across from Jim, he shrugged. "I guess I'm just trying to see what I can learn from Pastor Stevens' sermon. It's impossible to change the past, and I'm seriously not sure that we'll ever find a way to live peacefully here. But I don't want to hate them, you know? The hate only makes me feel bad, whether it's mine or theirs." He blew on the hot concoction. "He was very brave tonight, to stand up there and say things that most of his congregation would resent hearing."

"You think any of them really listened?"

"People like the Tuckers – probably not. But maybe some did. I hope so, anyway. But, regardless, Pastor Stevens did what he could. The only way the sort of situation we've got going here will ever change is if men of good conscience, and hopefully no little influence, like him, get up and say what we've got isn't good enough."

Silence fell between them while they soaked up the warmth of the kitchen and drank their hot chocolate. Blair flipped the lid off a tin of cookies Maisie had given him earlier that day, grinning to find it filled with her delectable shortbreads. He took one and offered the tin to Jim, who also smiled appreciatively as he appropriated two cookies.

"Is there anything we need to do to get ready for tomorrow?" Jim asked before he took a bite.

"Nah, I think we're good to go. All the presents for the kids 'from Santa' are wrapped and are ready to go into my buggy in the morning – well, the ones we're taking from everyone in town, anyway. Joel's coordinating their contributions out at the ranch. The idea Megan had of a draw was great; nobody's been burdened with either buying or making a lot, and no kid is going to wind up without anything from Santa this year. Maisie brought over the fruitcake we ordered for Simon and Joel when she brought the cookies. She's really looking forward to coming over here for breakfast tomorrow, along with Megan and the Browns – said it would be the best Christmas morning she's had in many a year, and just the beginning of the best Christmas Day. They'll all be here by nine."

"Good. That'll give us time to get everything ready," Jim replied with a smile as he leaned back and stretched out his legs, happy to relax for the rest of the evening. "It's going to be a good day. I've been really looking forward to it."

"Me, too," Blair agreed between sips of cocoa, and it was the truth; for weeks, he'd been anticipating the fun promised by their plans for Christmas. But he also wondered if it might be their last Christmas in Bitterwood Creek, which left him feeling sad. He loved these people. They had become family to him. Simon and Joel were the fathers he'd never had, Maisie was like a beloved aunt – even, in some ways though she was far too young, the grandmother he'd never known. Henri, Hannah, and Megan were siblings, and all the others were the cousins and nieces and nephews he hadn't realized he'd missed; even Pastor Stevens felt like an uncle or, at least, a very good friend of the family. He was going to miss them if … but then, maybe….

His thoughts stalled. He didn't want to think about the problems, the tensions in town; didn't want to worry about the changes or sorrows the new year might bring. Meeting Jim's eyes, he smiled. Whatever the future brought, he'd share it with Jim, and that was the best and most enduring gift of his life. "It's going to be a _great_ day!"

Jim's gaze searched his eyes, and his smile faltered. Shifting, he sat up straighter and placed his mug on the table, cradling it in his hands and studying it with a look of uncertainty. Confused by the abrupt change of mood, Blair asked, "What's wrong?"

Jim scratched his ear, and gave his head a small shake. "Nothing's wrong. I just don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"It's complicated," Jim replied, with a slight twist of his lips. He hazarded a glance at Blair before returning his gaze to his mug.

Blair sat back and, frowning with concern, studied his partner. "Are you having trouble with your senses?"

"No, no, they're fine," Jim assured him. He sighed again and straightened his shoulders. "Okay, I guess one part at a time. I've been wanting to talk to you for a while … there's something I want to give you and, well, Christmas is a time for gift-giving, right? Christmas and birthdays? But I didn't want to wait for your birthday."

"Jim, if you want to exchange our gifts tonight, that's fine with me," Blair suggested, thinking maybe Jim just didn't want to lump their personal giving to one another into what they'd planned for their friends in the morning.

"No … no, we can give the regular Christmas gifts to one another tomorrow, like we planned," Jim said. "This is about something different." He looked at the ring Blair had given him, and then twisted it thoughtfully, a small smile playing on his lips. Raising his eyes to Blair, he went on, "This is about something bigger, Chief. About … well, about who and what we are to one another. About … about the fact that our partnership is for life. This ring … whenever I think about it or feel it, look at it, I remember what you said when you gave it to me. But what I have for you isn't exactly the same kind of symbol, and I'm not sure how you'll take it. But I want you to take it. Because I think it's something you need, and … and well, I just want to give it to you."

"O-kay," Blair replied, giving him a quizzical look. "I'm sure I'd treasure anything you gave me, so I don't think you need to worry about this, Jim."

But Jim didn't look so sure. He took a breath and said on the exhalation, "Maybe just let me lay it out for you, so you understand why I want to do this, and why I really hope you'll accept it and not … and not think it's too much, or whatever." His gaze wandered around the kitchen and then came to rest on Blair's face. "Chief, I know you're doing all you can to make it work here, but I know you're not happy. You haven't been happy since we got home last summer. And I know part of it is that you feel you somehow owe the people here, the ones who still come to you for help. I think you'd hate to leave them. But … but I don't think you owe them anything more than you've already given all the years you've been here. Hell, I don't think you owe them anything. They will always owe you for walking in here past that quarantine flag."

"Jim –"

"Please, just let me finish, and then you can argue with me," Jim cut in. "Anyway, I think another reason you hesitate to leave is that you're not sure how you'd get started somewhere else; how you'd set up a place like this again, with a dispensary and office and infirmary, not to mention living quarters. I know you barely make a dollar from one month to the next – people pay you in kind, with food, or whatever. So part of this gift is about granting you the freedom to choose, without worrying about all that."

Narrowing his eyes as he studied Jim, not sure he liked where the conversation was going, Blair started to comment but Jim rushed on. "And … and I think, sometimes, what you need is a break; some time to regroup, maybe go to see Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters. I know you're still not comfortable with what happened last summer, even though you never talk about it. But you get this haunted look sometimes and I … I know that's what you're thinking about. Worrying about. I don't know anyone else who can help us to understand all that better than they can. But again, I know you're reluctant to leave here; it keeps circling back to that, and I just don't think you should be trapped by what you think you owe people. I think you need to give more weight to what you owe yourself." Jim pushed his mug away and reached into his shirt pocket to draw out a small leather folder. "And … and the rest of it is about telling you what I did last winter, only I didn't think you'd accept it then."

Again he looked at his ring, tilting it so the light from the kerosene lantern ignited the star in its depths. "But when you gave me this ring, you put into words what we mean to one another, who we are in one another's life." Looking up at Blair, his face was open and vulnerable, naked with his affection and his hope that his gift would be accepted as he'd accepted the ring. Swallowing, he said, "Since the day I rode into this town, I've been living under your roof, eating the food that your patients give you in payment. Sure, I've contributed here and there, but…"

"Jim, this whole house was a gift to me. I wasn't going to charge you for sharing more space than I need," Blair interjected.

"No, it wasn't a gift," Jim argued. "This house was earned by your years of study, by your knowledge and skill, and by the fact you saved any number of lives when you got off that stage, when anyone in their right mind would have kept on going."

"You didn't. And you got shot for your trouble."

"And I also got a job that pays me a regular monthly salary," Jim retorted. He held up his hands, clearly not wanting to fight. "Look, we're partners for life, right? We share what we've got freely with one another – that's what this ring symbolizes, right?"

When Blair nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly, because he couldn't argue with the sentiment, Jim gave him a definitive nod in return. "Right," he stated firmly. "So this is really just about me sharing what I have with you, just like you've always shared what you have with me." He placed the leather folder on the table between them. Taking another deep breath, he went on, "Most of my salary as sheriff has gone straight into the bank. And most of what I made in the Army went straight into the bank, too, because I didn't need much beyond what they provided. I bought Lobo and my own gear but … I never had a family to share it with or spend it on. And … and well, I also had a trust from my grandfather that was transferred into my full control when I was twenty-five, and that money has just sat in the bank, earning interest."

"Jim, wait. I don't want your money," Blair said in a rush. "You don't owe me anything and –"

"Was this ring about owing me something?" Jim countered.

"Well, no, but…"

"See, I could go out and buy a ring, but that's not what this is about, Chief." Jim struggled to explain. "It's the symbolism, not 'you gave me something so I have to give you something'. It's not that at all. This is because you're the most important person in my life, and we're partners in ways nobody would ever understand; well, nobody except Swift Eagle and Whispering Waters."

He slowly pushed the leather folder across the table. "This isn't about money. This is about being able to fulfill whatever dreams we may have. About the freedom to stay here or go; the freedom to go back to the reservation and spend whatever time we might want with them, to learn from them. It's about maybe giving a lot of it away, but I want to do that with you, so we give it together to people or causes that we both think need the help. A year ago, I made out my will and left it with Sam, leaving everything I have to you; and I put the account in both of our names. But…" Jim's voice caught, and he had to clear his throat. "But I've decided it's stupid for the money to just keep sitting there. And … and I put the account in both our names specifically so you can access it for anything you need or want, but you can't do that if you didn't even know it existed."

When Blair didn't reach out to take the folder, he looked up with vulnerable hope. "Please understand. This is … this is about us being _family_. This is about sharing all we have with one another, literally until death do us part. Please don't deny me the right to share with you what I have, just as you've shared everything you have with me."

Blair let out the breath he'd been holding, and swallowed hard. How could he argue with Jim's reasoning? But to take money … just didn't feel right.

Jim sighed, and slumped in his chair. "I was afraid you'd react like this. It's why I was afraid to do this. But I'm not trying to buy you, Chief. I hoped you'd … well, I hoped you'd understand." He ran his hand over his head and kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck. "Felt dishonest, not telling you about this. Like I wasn't being straight with you, but there never seemed a good time to just tell you that I'm not a poor, itinerant cowboy."

Blair heard the plaintive, helpless tones, and he realized he was hurting Jim by hesitating to accept what he was offering. Biting his lip, he reached out to draw the leather folder closer. "It's just that … well, nobody has just given me … everything they had," he murmured. "I've never been that important to anyone before, and I guess I'm not sure how to..."

"You're that important to me, Blair," Jim said, his tone low, fragile. "Nobody has ever been as important to me as you are. Nobody is family to me the way you are. You said … you said I'm the star in your sky. Well, you're the foundation that I stand on. I can't say it any plainer than that." He hesitated and then implored, "Please, Chief. Just take it."

Blair picked up the folder, and opened it to find a bank book. Lifting the book out, he opened the cover and saw the account number, and his and Jim's names as the account holders. Turning a page, he looked at the balance and gasped. His eyes wide with disbelief, he gaped at his partner.

Jim flushed and shrugged. "Yeah, I know. It's obscene. I'm a rich man, Chief. Maybe not as rich as Simon and Joel combined, but … rich."

Blair felt hysterical laughter bubble in his chest, and he couldn't hold it back. "R-rich?" he stammered, gasping for breath. "Jim, this is … this is…"

"A fortune. Yeah, I know," Jim agreed, a bemused smile playing around his lips. Spreading his hands, he shook his head helplessly. "I'm a simple man, and I don't need that money. I have everything I want, right here, right now, with you – and I'd be just as happy somewhere else, as long as we're together. But it's not doing any good moldering in that bank."

Leaning forward, Jim urged, "We can go anywhere you want. Set up just like this," he waved around at the house, "anywhere. And we could maybe do some real good with the money. But I don't want to make those decisions alone. Or, or if you want to stay here, fine. But well, I really think we should go back to the reservation for a while; you could advertise for a doctor back east to come in to look after your patients, and pay the guy's trip out here and back home again, pay him a salary even, to make it worth his while. And I know you've been worried about getting low on some of your medicines, now that you can't buy stuff from Ambrose. And some of your equipment, well, I've heard you muttering about needing to replace some of what you have. Mostly, I … I want us to be partners in everything, Chief." He sighed and searched Blair's eyes. "I want whatever is going to make you happy, Blair. I want … I want to see the sparkle in your eyes again. I want you to be able to do whatever is right for you to do, what you want to do, not what you feel you have to do, or what you're constrained to do because of circumstance."

Blair's hands started to tremble, and he had to set the bank book on the table. His throat had thickened at Jim's words and his chest felt tight, almost too tight to breathe. Sniffing, he blinked to clear his glazed eyes. _Nobody_ had ever cared so much for his happiness, not ever. He didn't need this from Jim to know the man cared about him, or that they were partners bound in a mystical way that nobody else could ever fully understand. He didn't need the symbolism of the money, any more than Jim had needed the symbolism of the ring. But he remembered how important it had been for him to give that ring to Jim; how good it had made him feel to give the best he could because Jim meant everything to him.

And, as he'd listened to Jim, he'd realized it was the same thing, the same kind of gesture. As Jim had listed the ways in which he thought Blair could use the money, the large and small opportunities that would make his life easier, help him to give the best care he could, give him choices, wanting only his happiness, he'd understood that it wasn't at all about the money, but what the money represented. Their future. Their choices. And the examples Jim had given showed how attuned he was, how much he noticed little things, and how much he wanted them to share in everything … how much his happiness mattered to Jim.

Jim was saying, was showing him, that he meant everything to Jim.

"Thank you," he managed to stammer. When Jim continued to look uncertain, he reached out to grip his friend's hand. "I m-mean that. I understand. I do. And … and I'm overwhelmed." He waved at the bank book. "I _never_ expected anything like this. But … I do understand. It's exactly what I meant when I gave you the ring. Exactly." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. And then he smiled. "I have everything I want, too, you know. Here, now, wherever … so long as I'm with you."

Jim visibly relaxed and, almost tentatively, returned his smile. "Maybe," he demurred gently. "But you're not happy, Chief. I'm worried about you."

Looking down at the bank book, thinking about what it represented, about all the possibilities it made manifest, Blair swallowed hard. His voice lower, softer, he admitted, "You're right. I'm not happy here, and I don't know if it's possible to ever be happy here again. Things've changed … too much. And you're right that we need to go back to the reservation. I've tried, really tried, to wrap my head around … but, it's too much. I don't even know where to begin, and I'm … I'm still scared. Scared of what I don't understand, and don't have the first idea about how to control."

"I know," Jim murmured, his hand turning to grip Blair's. "But I'm sure they can help us."

 _Us._ Jim had said that more than once. _Help us._ Blair bowed his head and drew a shuddering breath in his attempt to contain his surge of emotion. As much as they'd shared, as much as he intellectually and even emotionally understood what they were to one another, he was still sometimes blindsided and overwhelmed to realize that he truly, truly wasn't alone anymore. Didn't have to fight his own battles, cope with whatever came at him, alone. Not anymore. It was an oddly hard lesson to learn … and it never failed to move him to the core of his being to know Jim really was there for him, in everything.

"Ah, hey," Jim exclaimed as he came around the table and knelt beside him to wrap him in a hug. Of course, Jim would smell the salt of his unshed tears and hear the hammering of his heart, the tightness of his breath. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," Blair stuttered as he turned to hug Jim, and hold onto him with all his strength. "I just … you blow me away sometimes. I can't explain how much it means … it's like I keep forgetting that I'm really, really not alone anymore."

"Oh, Chief," Jim sighed and held him close. "Never alone. Not so long as there's breath in my body."

Blair nodded against his partner's shoulder as he drew in one deep breath after another, until the shakes had passed. Sniffing again, he drew away far enough to look into Jim's eyes. "I accept your gift," he said quietly. "It's wonderful, and I'm grateful. But the greatest gift in my life is you. You're the treasure, not the money in that bank."

Jim blushed and gave him a quizzical look. "Ah, there you go, getting all sappy again," he teased and ruffled Blair's hair. But his expression softened as he said gently, "I was alone, too, you know. You were the one who taught me I didn't have to live that way anymore. Even before we went to the reservation, I knew I never wanted to be without you … I just never dared hope that you'd feel the same way. That you'd want to share a lifetime with me."

"I know," Blair whispered, as he squeezed Jim's shoulder. He felt a profound sense of peace fill him and, for the first time in months, he didn't feel the least vestige of fear. "Until we went to the reservation, I didn't dare hope you'd want that with me, either." Leaning back, he glanced at the bank book. "I'm sorry. I should have talked to you more these last few months about how I was feeling. I just … well, I know you feel a protectiveness about the people here, just like I do."

"And you didn't think I meant it when I said I'd go, if that's what you wanted. You thought it would hurt me to go."

Blair nodded. "It _will_ hurt. Leaving our friends here. Our family. It's never hurt so much before … leaving, I mean. But staying hurts, too." He sighed. "I've found it so hard to know what's best to do, you know? There doesn't seem to be a right answer."

"It's not about what's right or wrong, Chief. It's about what we need. And, yeah, you're right. It won't be easy to ride away from here. From H and his family. From Simon and Joel. Or Maisie or Megan. But … but it's killing something inside of you, staying here. There are too many people who won't let you help them, and despite that sermon tonight, I don't think they ever will. It's tearing you apart." Jim paused. "And that tears me apart. I get so damned angry with them. And, hell, I'm supposed to be _their_ Sheriff, too. But I know they hate me, don't trust me. And I don't trust them. I can't do my job like that, either."

"I hadn't thought about that," Blair replied with a frown. Looking around the kitchen, and then out the window at the dark night, he said, "It's impossible, isn't it? To stay, when it's like this?"

"I think so, Blair," Jim agreed. He reached out to finger the bank book. "That's why … well, that's why I had to talk to you about this, and couldn't put it off any longer. I wanted you to know we've got lots of choices here. We – _we_ – need to decide what we're going to do. Make plans. Because as soon as the snow melts enough, as soon as winter's worst is over, I think we need to move on."

"It's going to make tomorrow kinda sad," Blair reflected as he stared out at the darkness.

"Going away doesn't mean we stop caring about the people here who matter to us. Doesn't mean we have to lose touch with them."

Blair thought about that and turned back to Jim. "Maybe … maybe we're not the only ones who need to move on. I didn't tell you, but Maisie has already decided to go when spring comes. She's going out to the Dakota Territory, to the Black Hills." He gave Jim a small smile. "She says they could use a doctor out there, and a lawman, too. And … well, I don't think it's safe here for the Browns, and maybe not for Simon or Joel, either. Not anymore."

Jim quirked a brow. "Megan told me she's been thinking of going out to the Black Hills, too."

"Really?" Blair exclaimed, his smile widening. "You think you'd like it out there?"

Jim chuckled and shook his head. "How many times do I have to tell you, Doctor Sandburg? I'm happy to tag along wherever you want to go. If that's the Black Hills, then that's where we'll go. We can set up shop beside Maisie and keep getting fresh bread for the rest of our lives. Works for me."

"We could help her – to build or buy a place. And … and we could help the Browns get re-established there, too."

"Yes, we could, if they'll let us."

Smiling to himself, letting his imagination and hopes fly for the first time since they'd returned from the far west, Blair mused with a feeling of wonderment, "You know, maybe tomorrow won't be so sad, after all. Maybe tomorrow will just be the start of something really exciting."

He looked at Jim and saw an odd expression on his partner's face. "What?"

"The sparkle, Chief," Jim said almost reverently, his voice husky. "It's back, in your eyes."

With a low laugh, Blair hugged him. "Well, if it is, you put it there. 'Cause it sure wouldn't be there without you. Thanks, Jim. Thanks for making it okay to dream again."

Holding him, Jim rose and drew Blair up with him. "C'mon," he murmured into Blair's curls. "It's getting late. Let's go to bed. We've got a busy day tomorrow."

Blair drew away to turn down the oil lamp, leaving the room in absolute darkness. Touching Jim's back, he said with laughter in his voice, "Lead and I'll follow you anywhere."

Jim laughed, a free, easy sound of unfettered delight, as he slung an arm around Blair's shoulders and guided him toward the stairs.

* * *

The next morning, when Jim woke, the air in the bedroom was so frosty he could see his breath. Quickly grabbing his clothes and Blair's for the day, garbed only in his longjohns, he dashed down the stairs into the kitchen, the only room in the house that was always warm. After stoking up the stove and putting water on to heat for their morning wash-up, he made use of the porcelain pot they kept in the tub room, because the kitchen stove kept that cubbyhole warm, too; it was just too damned cold to use the privy.

Pulling on his boots and throwing on his coat, he hastened out back to dump the pot, and quickly cleaned it out with snow, grimacing a little to know how cold it would be for his partner unless Blair slept for another good half hour. Setting it aside, he attached the large stone they kept strongly enclosed by sturdy netting to the well pulley, and dropped it down the shaft to shatter the surface ice that always built up on cold winter nights. He quickly hauled it back up, and then sent down the bucket. Glancing around as he pulled on the rope, he admired the pristine snow glinting in the dawn light and surveyed the clear sky.

Moments later, shivering, he stomped the snow off his boots and dashed back into the house. He got a fire started in the stove in the infirmary, and did the same in Blair's office. In the kitchen, he left the pot on the floor beside the stove to warm, and half-filled a basin with the precious hot water to wash and shave. By the time he'd finished, the chill was off his clothing and he could get dressed without feeling as if he was layering ice against his skin. The coffee pot was put on a burner to percolate, and he began sorting out the fixings for their big, holiday breakfast: two dozen eggs, cheese to be sliced and shredded, sausages and bacon to fry, flour to mix with eggs and water for griddle cakes, which would be served with the maple syrup he'd specially ordered through Angus. He sliced up a loaf of bread to toast, and put a dozen of Maisie's plump, light biscuits in the warmer.

As he got things organized, he was conscious of smiling and whistling Christmas songs under his breath. He'd been worried about how things would go the evening before, worried that Blair just wouldn't really understand. Sure, it was a mountain of money … but the size of that mountain only mattered in terms of what it could mean for the both of them, and whomever else they wanted to share it with. But he'd been more worried about trying to pretend to any joy today if he had to keep seeing those shadows in Blair's eyes, and the pinched look that was half fear and half terrible uncertainty and sadness on Blair's face. He just couldn't stand to see his friend so torn between what he knew Blair wanted to do so bad he ached with it – leave this damned town – and what Sandburg somehow saw as his duty to all these people. Jim cared about them, sure. Loved some of them. But they'd all survived for years until Blair had gotten off that stage and had helped them survive the epidemic. So far as Jim was concerned, neither he nor Blair _owed_ them anything. And the pure fact of the matter was Jim was scared stiff that, if they stayed, it would eat Blair alive. Kill him. And that Jim couldn't countenance. Wouldn't.

But Blair, after the initial shock, had understood exactly everything he'd been trying to say; everything he meant that money to mean. It wasn't just dollars and cents. It was dreams and hope and … and choices, _options_ , for the _both_ of them.

Yeah, Jim loved some of the people there, and genuinely liked a few – but not all that many; he was fast coming to loathe the rest of the town and all of the settlers. The sooner they got away from there, the happier they'd both be. And if some of the others were smart enough to go with them, well great. But they couldn't live their lives for other people, not _all_ the damned time.

Just knowing they'd be leaving loosened a knot inside that had been growing ever tighter as the months had passed. They wouldn't be able to go until March at the very earliest, so they weren't clear of it all yet. But soon, soon they'd head to the reservation, and sort out the stuff that was scaring Blair so badly he hardly slept a whole night through. And then they'd head to the Dakota Territory.

His smile widening, Jim planned out the telegraphs he send to Toby and to his father, to let them know he and Blair were moving on. Jauntily humming the melody to 'Tis the Season To Be Jolly', he greased the pans and put them on to heat.

Not long after, he heard Blair yelp at the bitter cold upstairs. "Move your ass, Sandburg!" he yelled. "The kitchen is warm and cozy, and you need to get the stoves lit in your office and the infirmary, if they're going to be warm by the time our guests arrive!"

Listening to Blair clatter down the steps, muttering loudly about the infernal cold and, in high dungeon, stomping straight past the kitchen to get the other stoves lit, he laughed softly to himself. He heard Blair jog back to the kitchen, calling, "You lit them already! The rooms are already warming up!" As he skidded into the kitchen, Jim looked over his shoulder as Blair called with a bright grin, "Thanks, man!"

"Merry Christmas, Chief," he replied, then teased, "Just don't think I'm going to spoil you like this every morning."

"Nah, I know," Blair grumbled with a grin. "You wouldn't want me to get all soft or anything." Still shivering, he hauled on his layers of warm shirts before grabbing his jeans and the pot and disappearing into the tub room. When he came out, he hurried to the back to dump the contents. Returning to the kitchen, he replaced it in the cubby-hole, and then brought three more, including a little one, all with ornate tops, from his office to leave in the cubicle as well, in case any of their guests had need for relief before they set out for the ranch later that morning. As he washed and shaved, he surveyed Jim's progress with approval. "Looks like you've got everything well in hand."

"I think so," Jim agreed. "You can get the infirmary set up. People can dish up in here and we can all perch on cots or chairs in there to eat together. And we can open the gifts in there, too."

"Good plan," Blair agreed. "If we're careful, I bet we could even move the tree in there. Would brighten the room up. Make it more festive."

"Just let me know when you're ready, and I'll give you a hand."

Blair gave his back a companionable pat as he headed off to do his own part in getting ready for their guests. When Jim turned to place dishes and cutlery on the table, he noticed the leather folder and the bank book were gone. Nodding to himself, he smiled and then went back to whistling.

* * *

Blair and Jim had barely finished arranging the tree and gifts in the infirmary when Maisie knocked and came through the door, bringing the scent of yeast and fresh cinnamon with her, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

"Merry Christmas!" she pealed.

Hastening down the hall to greet her, Jim kissed her cheek and relieved her of the cloth-covered tray she was bearing. "Fresh cinnamon rolls!" he cheered, grinning like a boy. "You spoil us rotten, Maisie."

"Ah, well," she smiled back as Blair helped her off with her coat, "someone needs to spoil the two of you. I've got more in the shop that we'll need to pick up before we go out to the ranch."

"Joel will be singing your praises," Blair assured her as he, too, gave her a kiss.

She patted his cheek, then paused, looking into his eyes. "Something's changed," she murmured. "You look … wonderful." Suddenly flustered, she blushed and looked away. "I mean, not that you've been looking terrible but…" Gazing at him again, she marveled, "it's been too long since I've seen you look happy."

Drawing her into the kitchen where Jim was watching the sizzling meat, he said, "I'm not sure how many people we'll be telling right away, but since you gave me the idea, you should be the first to know. We've decided we just can't live without your bread."

"What? But…" Confused, she looked from Jim to Blair and then comprehension hit. "You're both coming, too!" she exclaimed, happy tears springing to her eyes as she drew him into a quick hug. "Oh, I'm so glad. You've no idea how glad I am! This is wonderful news!" Moving to Jim, she patted him approvingly on the arm. "You've obviously managed to talk some sense into the man. Good for you. The sooner we kick the dust from this poisonous place from our boots, the better, I say."

"Well, it's not going to be easy leaving the people we care about," Blair replied with a sigh. "But, yeah, Jim helped me see that it's time to begin again somewhere new."

Maisie took an apron from a hook near the door and tied it around her plump body. Shouldering Jim away from the stove with a determined, "Here now, you need to be greeting your guests when they arrive. Let me handle this," she glanced over her shoulder. "Well, you know my thinking on the matter, Doc. An' I suspect that if your friends knew the two of you were going, some of them might decide the idea of stayin' on here doesn't have much charm." Tending to the sausages and sizzling bacon, she went on matter-of-factly, "Tell them your plans. Tell them you want them to come, too."

"Them?" Jim prompted.

"Why Henri and Hannah, of course!" she replied. "Simon and Joel, too, for that matter. Fencing in their range," she snorted and shook her head. "Near killed them to do that." Putting another large cast-iron skillet on the stove, she went on with aggrieved sorrow but firm assessment, "T'isn't safe for any of 'em here no more. I hate to say it, but you both know it's true. Once you go, Jim, any protection of the law will be gone."

The door from the outside opened, and Megan called, "Merry Christmas and someone help me with this! It's heavy!"

Jim and Blair both hurried to greet her, and Jim relieved her of the huge bowl of eggnog she'd staggered in with. "You should have come to get me to carry this for you," he chided as he took it down the hall to the infirmary, and placed it on Blair's examination and operating table. Bolted to the floor in the center of the room, it couldn't be moved, but Blair had draped it with a cheerful crimson cloth.

"Oh good," Megan approved as she and Blair followed him into the room. "I see you've put the gifts I brought over yesterday morning under the tree. And the sack over there – the gifts for the children once we get out to the ranch?"

"Yeah," Blair agreed with a smile. "We'll load them into my buggy with you and Maisie."

Pushing up the sleeves of her elegant dress, Megan turned back to the hall. "I'll just see if Maisie needs a hand in the kitchen, and you boyos can bring some cups in here for the eggnog."

Jim gave Blair a bemused look as they followed her down the hall. "What is it with women? As soon as you let them in the door, they start to boss you around," Jim teased, loud enough for Megan to hear him.

"It's just that we know you lads haven't the first idea about how to get things organized," she tossed blithely over her shoulder, and Blair laughed.

The Browns arrived then, the girls chattering full speed and both eager to show Jim and Blair the new toys Santa had left for them that morning. Proudly, they held up the dolls carved and stained a rich brown and garbed in cheerful red woolen clothing. "They're just like us!" Cherie cheered as she whirled in a new dress that matched her doll's.

"And they're beautiful, just like the two of you," Blair assured her and Rose, with a glance at Henri, who had carved them, and Hannah, who had made the clothing. "Very beautiful. Santa must love you two an awful, awful lot."

The girls grinned and jumped up and down in giddy joy, while Henri and Hannah smiled their thanks. Blair took their coats and laid them on the couch in his office. By the time he'd turned around, Hannah was already in the kitchen, helping Maisie and Megan with breakfast, and Jim was loading Henri with cups and glasses to take into the infirmary. Blair poured them all cups of coffee, and then the men got out of the crowded kitchen. In the infirmary, they found the girls on their knees, inspecting the presents under the tree.

"Poppa!" Ruth exclaimed. "There's ones with our names on 'em!"

"Hey, now," he chastised, but gently, "you just be leavin' all that alone for now, and come and have a glass of eggnog."

The girls took their half-filled glasses and their dolls, and perched on one of the cots to whisper together.

"Merry Christmas, H," Jim offered, lifting his coffee cup in a toast.

"And the same to both of you," Henri replied with a relaxed smile. But his face clouded briefly as he added, "Wish I could be as certain in wishing you a Happy New Year. Guess we'll just have to see how things go."

"Well, actually," Blair began, not having intended to raise the subject that day, but unable to resist the opportunity. "Uh, what would you think of maybe moving to the Black Hills? I hear the place is booming, with new settlers moving in. Would be plenty of work for a blacksmith."

"What? The Black Hills?" Brown echoed with a blank look of surprise. "Why would you…?"

Jim explained quietly, "We've decided it's time to move on, H. And Blair and I, well, we hope you and Hannah will go with us. This is no place, not anymore, for you to be raising your family."

Taken aback, Brown looked from one to the other. "Why, I never thought … that is, well, me and Hannah have talked about wishin' we could head somewheres new. But we don't have … everythin' we have is tied up in that stable and forge, an' our house." Looking away, he sighed. "An' I don't expect any of the new folks'll be breakin' down my door to buy my business or my house. Would probably sooner burn 'em to the ground."

"Well …" Jim hesitated, then plunged on, "we'd like to invest in your new business, if you'll come along. And we could help with the supplies for the journey." When Brown frowned and his shoulders stiffened, Jim hurried to say, "Look, we know it's not easy to accept help, not when you're a proud and independent man. But we don't want to leave here without you and your family."

"You're _our_ family, Henri, all of you," Blair interjected as he gripped Brown's arm. "Please think about it. Talk to Hannah."

Brown blew a long breath and looked at his daughters. Pressing his lips together, he relaxed and nodded. Swallowing hard, he hazarded a glance at the two of them, and Blair could see his eyes were moist with emotion before he blinked it away. "Don' get me wrong," he rumbled, his voice low and hoarse. "Means the world that you'd want us taggin' along. When would you be thinkin' of goin'?"

"Soon as the winter has broken," Jim replied. "We want to head to the reservation first, spend some time there."

Brown looked at Blair and away, but he nodded with understanding. "Sounds like a good idea."

"If you and Hannah were going, too, you could maybe take our stuff with you; what we can't take on horseback," Blair suggested. "Honestly, H, you'd be helping us if you went, too. And … well, we'd sure be happy if you would."

"You talked to Simon and Joel, yet?" Henri asked.

"No. We'll probably tell them today, too," Jim advised him. "Bitterwood Creek isn't a good place for them now, either. The Territory is still wide open."

"No fences," Brown murmured with a small smile. "They'd like that." Once again, he gazed at his girls. "I'll talk to Hannah. She'll probably like the idea a lot."

"What will Ah like?" she asked as she came into the room with plates of food for her daughters. After she got the girls squared away, she came to stand beside her husband, a curious look on her face.

"Jim and Blair were wonderin' how we might like to move to the Black Hills, in the Dakota Territory," Henri told her as he slid an arm around her waist. At her expression of astonishment, he explained, "They're goin' to move up there, darlin', an' they want us to go with them."

Happiness flamed in her eyes, banishing the worn look of worry that had seemed always in their depths the last several months, but then was as quickly gone. "Tha's kind," she murmured in confusion. "But, but how would we manage?"

"They want to go into business with us," Henri replied. "And," he went on with a quick look at them, "they said it'd be a help if we took their stuff with ours, 'cause they're goin' to visit the reservation on the way."

"We really want you to come, Hannah," Jim said earnestly. "We don't want to leave all of you here without us."

Blair could see hope in her eyes as she looked up at Henri. "Do ya'll think we could, Henri?"

A gentle smile creased Brown's face, and Blair understood that Henri would do anything in his power to assure Hannah's happiness and the safety of his girls, including swallow his pride at needing to have help to do it. Henri drew her into a hug and kissed her temple. "Yes, darlin'," he murmured. "When they go, there's nothing more to keep us here. Best we should stick with family, right? Someone's gotta watch out for them."

She hugged him fiercely, and her shoulders started to shake. "Ah, now, Hannah," he exclaimed in distress. "Don't you be cryin', girl."

"Ah'm jes so happy!" she gusted. "Ah din' think we'd eva be able to get away from here. T'is like a Christmas miracle!" Sniffing, she drew back and brushed her eyes with her fingertips. Turning to Jim and Blair, she held out a hand to each of them. "T'ank you," she said with a tremulous smile. "T'ank you for wantin' us along."

"Oh, hey," Blair exclaimed, "you've just made this the best Christmas ever for us! Much as we want to go, just as much, we didn't want to leave you guys."

"Breakfast is ready!" Maisie called cheerfully from the kitchen. "Come and dish up your plates!"

Hannah hurried from the room to share the news with Maisie and Megan. The men followed more slowly, Jim's hand on Henri's shoulder. "Blair's right. You've just made this the best Christmas ever. I know it's not easy, needing help. But we need you in our lives. You and your family. Good friends are just too damned hard to find to leave them behind."

"I'll pay you back. Might take a while, but I will," Henri insisted.

"By agreeing to go, you already have," Blair murmured. "Would'a made me sick to ride out of here, without all of you." When Henri looked like he was about to protest, Blair touched his arm. "We'll work it all out in the days and weeks ahead. But those are just details. It's all going to be fine. Better than fine. It's going to be great."

Heaving a sigh, Brown nodded. "Yeah," he agreed, a genuine smile growing large as he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. "Yeah, it is."

* * *

After they'd eaten, the girls helped sort the presents, carefully reading the labels and carrying each parcel as if it was fragile treasure to the recipient. Maisie had knitted scarves for everyone, and Megan gave her friends inscribed cards offering dinner on the house at her hotel at a time of the recipient's choosing. She gave each of the little girls a wooden box filled with colored pencils and a tablet of paper to draw on. Henri and Hannah gave them each a wrought iron trivet he'd made in his forge, delicate squares of woven metal on tiny knob legs.

"It's beautiful!" Megan exclaimed as she examined hers. "Henri, you're an artist!"

He ducked his head, embarrassed, while Hannah held his hand and smiled proudly.

Jim and Blair gave the girls a tea party set of tiny rose-patterned cups, saucers and teapot, complete with milk jug and sugar bowl that sent them into paroxysms of delight. The women were each given delicate lace table cloths, and they gave Henri a pair of leather gloves.

Blair gave Jim a new gunbelt of finely-tooled leather. "Just try not to send too many new patients my way," he teased as Jim inspected it, clearly appreciating the detail, and the supple feel and rich, smoky scent of the smooth leather.

And Jim gave Blair a new medical bag, complete with little glass vials and jars for his medicines. Blair examined it with an expression of wonder, finding hidden pockets and compartments. His old bag was close to falling apart, but he'd despaired of ever having enough cash on hand to afford a new one. Knowing full well what such a bag cost, he was glad he now knew that such a gift hadn't required Jim's last dime, or he would've felt downright guilty accepting it.

They visited while they finished the eggnog, and Megan revealed she'd already been advertising her hotel for sale in the Wichita paper.

"I'm sure it will sell by spring," Jim said with unbridled confidence.

Blair shot him a look, and then had to duck his head and hide his grin. No doubt it _would_ sell, to an anonymous buyer, as would Henri's home and stable. Smiling to himself, he felt incredibly delighted about knowing they could quietly help their friends make all of their dreams come true.

Megan checked the little watch pinned to her bodice and blinked. "Oh, my, we'd best be getting ourselves organized. It's nearly time to head out to the ranch."

They made short work of setting the infirmary to rights and washing up in the kitchen. Blair dashed across the street with Maisie to carry back her trays of fresh rolls for the party on the Gold Ribbon. The Browns went home to drop off their gift, and Brown hitched up their wagon. As Blair and Maisie hurried back across the road, Maisie waved to their neighbors, the Sloans, MacDonalds, Gurneys, Raymonds, McCreadys, Johnny Winston, and Pastor Stevens, who were also making their way on horseback or by carriage or wagon to the ranch. Jim went out to hitch Butternut to Blair's ancient buggy and saddle Lobo, the fruitcake and their gift for Simon and Joel in his saddlebags. Megan helped him load the gifts for the kids and blankets to keep her and Maisie warm into the buggy, so by the time Maisie and Blair were back, they were ready to go. Blair helped the women into the back seat and got them warmly bundled, before climbing in the front and gathering up the reins to follow Jim out to the road.

Though the men made no mention to the women of their security concerns, the cavalcade was planned, not happenstance. Well armed with rifles and handguns, not trusting that even Christmas Day could guarantee peace, they all kept a wary watch as they traveled along the edge of the settlers' homesteads on the trail to the Gold Ribbon.

* * *

As soon as they arrived at the Ranch, the cowboys took charge of the kids. There were pony rides around the corral, and snow forts had been erected for pitched snowball battles. The women scurried through the house to the kitchen, to help Susanna Stone with the preparation of the banquet to be served in mid-afternoon. The men adjourned to the games room, where Simon and Joel surprised them with a new snooker table. Joel poured the libations, and there was a good deal of laughter as the men tested their hand and eye coordination with the long, thin sticks and the brightly-colored balls on the sea of green velvet.

Standing to one side by a wide set of windows, Jim and Blair talked with Simon and Joel, catching up on the latest troubles with the settlers.

"They keep bringing down sections of the north fence," Joel grumbled, sounding exasperated, "letting in their sheep and enticing cattle onto their land. If things weren't already so darned tense, we'd go after 'em for rustling."

Simon nodded, his expression grim. "The cold helps keep tempers down, and the snow stops any real trouble, but come summer? All bets are off. They're spoilin' for a fight. Much as we hate to get into a war, we're ready for 'em."

"Have you considered another option?" Jim asked. "Or would you?"

"What option?" Joel demanded. "I have to tell you, I'm not looking forward to another summer of misery and that promises to only be the beginning, but we're not goin' to just lie down and let 'em walk all over us. These folks aren't going to go away."

"Yeah, we've come to that conclusion, too," Blair replied. He looked to Jim, who nodded for him to continue. "We're planning to move on come spring. Up to the Dakota Territory. Maisie, Megan and the Browns are going, too." He paused at the looks of surprise on their friends' face. "I know, it feels sudden. But … none of us want to live in these conditions and, well, some of us don't even feel safe here anymore."

Jumping in, Jim went on, "We're hoping you'll consider moving your operation up there. It's a brand new territory, wide open land … no fences."

Astonishment gave way to thoughtful consideration as Simon and Joel mulled over the news. "I've heard the Dakota Sioux aren't all that excited by settlers moving in … and the miners in the Hills are downright annoying the hell outta them."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, "I've heard that, too. But the railroad track is already laid, and there's nothing going to stop settlement, anymore than people stopped coming here when this territory opened up. You know that; you were some of the first men to register land hereabouts."

"True enough," Simon agreed. "We got along just fine with the Indians in those days. Traded with them, cattle for the use of what they still saw as their land. Guess we might be able to work the same kind of deal up there."

"With more settlers going in all the time, they'll be needing meat," Joel mused as he scratched his cheek.

"No fences," Simon murmured.

"No fences," Joel agreed solemnly. They looked at one another for a long moment, and then nodded slowly before he turned to Jim and Blair. "It'll make for some cattle drive," he said with a grin. "Long way up along the Missouri."

Simon waved Sam over, and freshened his drink. "Sam, we've just been talkin' about maybe moving the ranch up into the Dakota Territory. We'll want to sell the land here, but it wouldn't have to be sold before we moved off it. What about our other resources? How portable is our wealth?"

Sam nearly choked on his whisky. "Move the ranch?" he echoed, and coughed to clear his throat. "Good Lord, if you men pull out your accounts, well, there goes the bank in Bitterwood Creek. Why, I might as well move on along with you, set up business up there. New territory … probably doesn't have many bankers yet." He paused and considered the idea. "Most of your wealth aside from your herd is already in Wichita or in stocks … too large a fortune to keep in the vault here. So we'd just have to transfer what's left to the main branch in Wichita, and then draw on it once I set up a new establishment wherever we land. But … are you sure it's safe to go?"

"Probably safer than for some of us to stay here," Joel rumbled. "No offence, Sam, but this town ain't what it used to be."

"No," Sam sighed. "No, it isn't."

"Close the bank?" Angus challenged, having overheard part of the conversation. "What're you talkin' about? What about the loans folks have with you?"

Simon looked at Joel who replied, "Don't worry, Angus. Simon and I wouldn't foreclose on anyone. I'm sure Sam can make arrangements regarding mortgage payments and the like before we go."

Angus, who'd directed his question to Sam, now regarded Joel with a frown of confusion.

Sam explained quietly, "All the loans out of the Bitterwood Creek bank have been underwritten by Simon and Joel for years, Angus. I just front for them; they're the real bankers in town."

"Where're you thinkin' of movin' to?" Angus wondered, sounding as if he couldn't quite absorb the news.

"Well, we've just been talking about the Dakota Territory," Simon replied. "Makes a good deal of sense, for all kinds of reasons."

"We'll be going, too," Jim said, looping an arm around Blair's shoulders.

"And me and my family, as well," Brown added. "Megan and Maisie, too."

"When did all this get decided?" Dan Raymond asked, joining in the conversation. "Seems kinda sudden."

Blair sighed. "Well, I guess a number of us have been considering the idea of moving on since the summer. Things just aren't … comfortable for a lot of us anymore, Dan. But most of us just decided today."

The newspaper man looked saddened by the news. "I'll be sorry to see all of you go, and that's a fact. But I guess I can understand why. It's too bad. We had a nice little town here."

Silas McCready and Moe Gurney grimaced and shook their heads, but didn't offer any comment. Johnny Winston just looked stunned.

The preacher's gaze fell away, and he moved to look out the window.

"I'm sorry," Blair said quietly as he moved to stand beside the man. "I know you hoped things might work out here but…"

"You don't need to either explain or apologize, Doc," Stevens said heavily. "I trust in God," he went on, "though sometimes it's hard. But I suspect He has a purpose in leading you and Jim away from us, just as He had a purpose when He brought the two of you to us. Like Dan, I'm … well, I'm sorrowed by the news. But, like him, I more than understand."

"What are we going to do for law enforcement?" Angus muttered, aggrieved. Sam shot a look at Jim, perhaps remembering their conversation the previous summer, when Jim had made it clear he wouldn't stick around forever defending a town that wouldn't defend itself.

"Or for doctorin'?" Silas demanded aggressively. "Delores won't be best pleased by this news."

"I can advertise back east for a doctor for the town," Blair replied, turning to answer the saloon owner. "Whether anyone chooses to come, I can't predict. I know you worry about Milt Ambrose's qualifications and it's true he's not fully qualified, most especially for anything requiring surgery. But if he consents, I'll work with him before I go; leave him some of my reference books. He's not a fool. And he's a whole lot better qualified than many, maybe even most, men who set up practice around this country."

The townsmen didn't look happy, but they let it go for the moment. Jim glanced at Simon and Joel, while Henri rolled his eyes; none of the four of them could understand how Blair could continue to support and promote the man who had treated him so badly.

* * *

By common consent, the men tabled the discussion for the rest of the day, so as not to take away from the celebrations by worrying the women and children about changes that wouldn't be happening for months yet.

The children stampeded in, filling the house with rosy, eager faces, high-pitched laughter and gusts of fresh, cold air. They recounted adventures with the ponies and the outcomes of the snowball fights with great drama and enthusiasm, all their young voices piping at once and ever louder to be heard. Jim was wincing and laughing at the same time and, with an amused if empathetic chuckle, Blair suggested he attend to his bronze lantern. Within fifteen minutes, the women had herded the youngsters into the kitchen to be fed their Christmas dinner, while the cowhands were called to take their places in the dining room, as the first shift of adult diners. Though they'd wait for their own meal with the women, the men drifted into the dining room to join the conversation there. Simon and Joel raised glasses high in a toast to salute their very capable and valiant men.

Tex helped himself to a mountain of mashed potatoes, turnip, squash and turkey, drenching all of it in rich gravy, as he called over the din of conversation, "Hey, H! Your girl, Cherie, tells me you're movin' somewhere called 'Kota Tories."

Rafe and Taffy, who'd been on snowball duty, nodded. "Yeah, Rosie said something about Dakota Territory," Taffy reported. "You holding out on us, buddy? You goin' to look for gold?"

The conversation around the table muted considerably as the riders waited for Brown to answer. "Uh, yeah," he allowed, embarrassed to find himself the center of attention. "Well, not to look for gold. But some of us're pulling up stakes in the spring."

"Some?" Rafe asked, glancing at Jim and Blair.

"Well, now, there's plenty of time to share all the details and make all the plans," Simon interjected. "But Joel and I would be interested in knowin' how many of you would consider making a long drive up the Missouri to open grassland. No rush. Months before the snow'll clear enough to allow the cattle to forage on the way."

"No danged fences," Larkin cheered.

"And no damned sheep," Reynolds added with considerable feeling, wincing a little when Joel glared at him for cursing in the house while there were women and children under the roof.

"Who all is goin' anyway?" Jeb Strong, the former Sheriff asked, his brows lifting with curiosity.

"Well, us, an' the Browns," Joel replied and waited, evidently not wanting to speak for others.

"Jim and me," Blair supplied with a slow smile, unable to hide his relief at knowing they'd be leaving. "And Maisie and Megan."

"And most probably my family, too," Sam joined in.

Jeb nodded knowingly. "Hard to protect folks who are as like to shoot you in the back as look at you," he observed dryly.

"Well, there's that," Jim agreed with wry humor.

Digging into his meal, Tex drawled, "Sounds to me like we got the makin's of a new town. But lessen Miz Connor's goin' t' set up a bar in her new place, we'll be needin' us a saloon."

The other riders laughed in agreement.

Silas McCready shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure we'll be makin' that trip," he said with unusual diffidence, his gaze roaming the walls. "My business is still good, what with the stage comin' through an' all."

"Nothin' wrong with stayin'," Joel hastened to say. "Some of us got more call to look for greener pastures than others."

There was a rumble of agreement around the room, and the conversation moved on.

After the meal, the children were allowed to open the presents under the massive tree in the large, comfortable sitting room at the front of the house. There were giggles and exclamations of delight, and then they were directed by their parents to play quietly with their new toys while the rest ate their Christmas dinner.

Sam caught Sarah's eye as they settled around the table, dishes and platters heaped and steaming for the last shift of diners. Assuming Megan and Maisie had shared the news in the kitchen – and the women had probably heard the men talking, anyway – leaning close, he murmured, "Don't worry, dear. We'll talk about the changes coming and decide what's best for us – stayin', goin', movin' back east closer to your family – but let's not worry about it today, alright?" She smiled at him, and the taut concern in her face eased.

Delores gave her husband a meaningful glance, but he looked away and shrugged. Her lips thinned briefly before she turned her attention to dishing up her plate and passing the bowls along the table.

Simon stood to toast them with wine he'd brought up from their extensive cellar for the occasion. "Joel and I are mighty glad you have all come to join us this Christmas Day. Nothing like the sound of young'uns all excited and happy to make any day cheerful. You've all been real good friends to us, and we wish you a most sincere Merry Christmas. And all the very best the New Year can hold."

"Hear, hear!" the others sang out as they toasted him back and sipped on the rich, ruby wine.

Joel asked Pastor Stevens to give the blessing. The big man stood and they all bowed their heads. "We thank you, Lord, for the plenty you've placed before us. And we ask you to bless this gathering, Dear Lord, of good friends and neighbors, as we join together to celebrate the birth of Your Son. May You bring peace into our lives, and guide us through all our days. Amen."

After they finished eating, they went outside, where the cowhands had prepared wagons for a hayride around the property. The kids all swarmed up into the wagons, many being helped by the men. Afterward, the women served up hot chocolate and cookies.

Just before they left, as the sun was setting in the west and casting a rosy glow over the snow, Jim and Blair presented Simon and Joel with their Christmas tribute, a bottle of well-aged single malt from the Highlands of Scotland.

"Well, now, this is very nice," Joel said approvingly.

"We hope you enjoy it," Jim said with a grin.

"And we held off giving it to you until everyone was leaving, so's it didn't all get drunk during the day," Blair chimed in.

The older men laughed. "Good plan," Simon approved, while Joel handed them their gifts, new slickers and thick sweaters for the both of them.

"I hear it gets mighty cold up north in the winter time," Joel teased as Blair held his sweater up to admire it.

"Oh, man, I forgot about that!" Blair wailed in dismay.

"But the summers are long and hot and dry," Jim soothed him cheerfully.

"Oh, well, that's okay, I guess," Blair allowed with a grin. He paused, and then added with soul-deep sincerity, "I'm really glad you both took the idea so well. I didn't know what I'd do if you, well, if you didn't want to go, too."

"Me, either," Jim added. "You're family and we really didn't want to leave you behind."

"Well," Simon sighed. "I guess someone had to get the rest of us movin'. Lord knows, staying here wouldn't be nothin' but aggravation. Never thought we'd start a new adventure at this stage of our lives but … I have to say, it gives me a good feeling. A feeling of hope that I haven't had for a while now."

Joel nodded, and patted his partner on the back. "'Sides," he added with a grin and a glint in his eyes, "now that we're gettin' on in years, we need to keep almighty close to our doctor."

* * *

Three nights later, Jim frowned in his sleep, disturbed by something that wasn't quite registering. Snapping into wakefulness, he realized he was hearing low voices and the clop of horses' hooves – at a time of night when silence was the norm. He was just beginning to rise to see if someone was taking a run at the bank when his nose twitched. Smoke!

"Fire!" he yelled loudly to wake Blair as he yanked on his jeans and shoved his feet into his boots. "C'mon, wake up! FIRE!"

Blair was already rolling out of bed as he charged down the stairs, belted on his weapons and grabbed his coat. He could see the dancing flicker of light from flames through the kitchen window, filling him with a sense of dread. Blair raced down the steps as Jim pulled open the door – and nearly gagged at the overwhelming stench of blood.

"What the hell?" Jim gasped, stepping outside in time to hear pounding hooves drawing away. The stickiness under his feet was ignored as he stared at the burning cross planted in the middle of the street. "Sonuva..." he cursed as he jumped down to the snowy, churned-up surface of the roadway and kicked the cross over, stamping out the flames in a barely-contained rage.

But the restless stomp of horses from the stable, a nervous neigh, drew his attention. His nostrils flared, and he picked up the scent of burning hay even as his eyes picked out flickers of light between the boards of the walls on either side of the closed double doors. Blair was now standing beside him, and he gave his partner a light push toward the Browns' house. "Get H up! The stable's on fire!"

And then they were racing across the road. Jim shouldered open one of the doors, but took care not to swing it wide, lest he cause a draft that would only feed the flames. He could smell the sweet stench of kerosene underlying the thick black smoke rising from bales stacked against the back wall, past the forge. Hurrying inside, he opened the stall doors and, with shouts and waving arms, urged the horses outside into the street. By the time he was reaching for a pitchfork, Henri and Blair had raced inside.

"We've got to push the burning hay outside," Jim yelled, "or we'll lose the whole stable!"

Brown darted back outside to around run to the back and open the door there that was blocked by flames. Blair, coughing in the smoke, grabbed another pitchfork and, together, he and Jim began shoving the enflamed bales out of the barn. Outside, Henri took on the task of shoving them further from the wooden structure. Hannah dashed outside, and began drawing buckets of water from the well to fill the large watering trough. The girls huddled in the doorway, their eyes wide with fear.

In scant minutes, they'd shoved the flaming pyre of hay out into the yard, but the back wall of the stable was smoking, the wood glowing dangerously. Coughing, black with smoke, they hauled bucket after bucket from the trough to splash on the burning wall. The air was so cold, the water turned to ice almost immediately, making their footing uncertain in the glaring light of the fire. As fast as they worked, it wasn't fast enough. The kerosene splashed on the stable walls fed the growing inferno. Giving up the battle to save the building, Henri dashed inside to save his tools and equipment, Jim and Blair on his heels. In a frenzy of urgency, they hauled halters, blankets, saddles, hammers and tongs, bellows and other assorted equipment out the front and dumped it clear of the barn, before hurrying back inside for more. Wood creaked and snapped above them, a timber cracked, and Jim shoved them both out just before the roof gave way, crashing down in a shower of sparks and hungry flames.

Panting, they stood helpless to do anything more but watch it burn. Jim lifted his face and turned a slow circle, gauging the wind, but the smoke was rising straight up. They were lucky. There would be no danger of the nearby structures going up in flames. "Hannah," he called, just in case the wind picked up, "take your girls over to our place, so they can't see it burn."

By then, others had shown up. Milt Ambrose and Maisie, the closest neighbors on the street, Megan and a number of her guests from the hotel, and Moe Gurney, who slept above the saloon, all appeared with coats thrown over their nightclothes.

"What happened?" Milt called. "The forge overheat?"

Jim shook his head. "Settlers," he replied with disgust. "I heard them ride off."

Milt gaped at him and then stared at the flames, obviously stricken by the news, horrified by it. For the briefest moment, Jim thought the man might be rethinking his affiliations, but then he heard Milt mutter as he turned away, "Damned fools. Might've burned me out."

Jim's gaze hardened and he growled to Blair, "I never want to hear you defending that bastard again." Turning away, he strode back across the road to inspect the vandalism of their home, and was glad it was so dark that the girls might not have noticed the blood when Hannah had carried them inside. While Moe and the others helped Henri move his equipment onto his front porch, and looped ropes around the necks of the loose horses to tie them to the nearby hitching post, Jim and Blair began cleaning off their stoop.

"Sheep's blood, I think," Jim grated as they shoveled the stained snow onto the street.

Blair didn't say anything. Just went inside to heat water on the stove to wash the door. When he came back outside with a basin and rags, he also carried a bag of salt that he liberally sprinkled on the boardwalk to keep ice from forming.

Hannah had gotten the girls settled and back to sleep in the infirmary, and had made a large pot of coffee by the time they finished the cleanup outside. She'd also filled another basin with hot water, so they could wash the smoke from their faces, hands and arms. Maisie and Megan joined them, as did Moe Gurning. Tired, glad of the warmth blazing from the stove, they huddled on kitchen chairs, silent and morose for several minutes. Henri put his arm around his wife's shoulders to comfort her.

"Dirty, rotten, vicious…" Megan muttered. "Cowards, the lot of 'em. Filthy, mean cowards."

"Did you get a look at them or their horses?" Blair asked wearily.

"No, they'd disappeared around the buildings by the time I hit the street," Jim grated, and then he sighed as he gazed at Henri and Hannah. "I'm sorry. Sorry we couldn't save the barn."

"It's just a building," Henri replied, though he sounded angry and bitter. Visibly reining in his temper, he went on, "Didn't lose anything important. Could've been a lot worse if that fire had taken the horses." He lifted his gaze to Jim's. "Thanks for getting them out. And for helping me save my tools."

"You can all sleep here tonight," Blair said. Frowning, he shook his head. "I don't think you should stay in the house any longer. It's too vulnerable, right on the edge of town like that." He hesitated and then went on, "I think, maybe, you should all stay at the ranch until we're ready to leave. We can help you load your stuff and move out there. Simon and Joel would be glad to have you."

"Maybe you should be moving out there, too, Doc," Henri riposted. "Not sure it's any safer for you to stay in town."

Blair's jaw tightened. "Jim and I'll be fine, at least for now. If things get worse?" He shrugged.

Moe set down his empty mug and stood to go. "I'm right sorry this happened to you, Henri," he rumbled. "Miz Conner's right. They're nothing but scum. The lot o' them." He chewed on his lip and then, looking around at each of their weary, strained faces, he said, "Lucinda and me'll be goin' with ya in the spring. I can't stomach livin' here no more."

* * *

January passed without further incident, though the tensions between the townsfolk and the settlers was palpable. McBride strutted around town like he owned it; Angus and Silas grew more taciturn and surly. Henri, with the help of friends, loaded two wagons with their household possessions and what he'd saved of his tools and equipment, to take out to the ranch, where his family was already ensconced. Johnny Winston showed up unexpectedly to help, and he asked, with raw uncertainty, if Brown might consider taking him along, to drive the second wagon, when he headed north. Henri clapped him on the shoulder and said he'd be glad of the help.

At the end of the month, Pastor Stevens dropped into Blair's office one bright, cold afternoon. Surprised to see him, Blair eyed him anxiously, noting his unusual pallor and the strain around his mouth and eyes. "Are you feeling ill, sir?" he asked solicitously, as he gestured for the preacher to take the chair at the end of his desk, wondering if the bombastic pastor was experiencing chest pain.

"I'm sick to my soul, Doc," Stevens muttered, "but it's nothing physical." He sighed, and drew a sheet of paper from his pocket and studied it morosely. "Guess my sermon on Christmas Eve fell on deaf ears." Looking up at Blair, he explained, "The Church Council has just terminated my services. Apparently, my words no longer reach their souls."

"Ah, I'm sorry," Blair replied as he sank into his chair. "You did your best, and we all appreciate that you tried … well, you tried to make this a better place. It's not your fault that they're so convinced of their own righteousness that they are blind to the harm they do."

Stevens shrugged and shook his head. Blowing a long breath, he straightened. "I came by to see what you might think of me tagging along when the rest of you leave town. I was thinking that maybe the Territory might have room for a fire and brimstone preacher. I know we don't share the same faith, but I value your opinion."

Smiling, Blair leaned back in his chair. "I think that's a fine idea, sir. It's still a new land up there, a rough land. I have no doubt there'd be many who'd benefit by the message you bring."

"Thank you, Doc," Stevens replied, seeming genuinely grateful for the encouragement. Looking around, he sniffed the air. "Any chance you'd have time to share a cup of coffee with an old and tired man?"

"Of course. I just put on a fresh pot a little while ago. Come on into the kitchen. And I've got some of Maisie's cookies."

"Comfort, indeed, for a wounded spirit," Stevens exclaimed, rallying to his more hearty nature. Blair grinned and led the way out of the office.

* * *

Late on the second Thursday in February, Jim and Blair were just finishing their nightly rounds when Jim cocked his head and, stiffening, turned back toward the center of town. A light, muffling snow was falling, and Jim tensed as he strained to hear past the rollicking laugher and music coming from the saloon.

"What is it?" Blair asked, unconsciously grounding his partner with a hand on his back.

"Some drunken fool is giving Dan a hard time," Jim grated and took off in a long, ground-eating jog toward the newspaper office where Dan Raymond often worked late to put the weekly chronicle together.

A shot split the night just before they got to the newspaper office. Jim pulled his Colt and, with a swift look through the glass, kicked in the door. "Drop your gun!" he ordered sharply.

Blair, behind him and sheltered by Jim's bulk, saw a settler standing over Dan Raymond, who was crumpled and still on the floor in front of his desk. The stranger sneered at Jim, rage still burning in his eyes, too drunk to reason with and too angry to back down. He twisted to bring his weapon up toward Jim, and Jim shot him, wounding him in the shoulder, to stop him, to bring him to his senses. But the big settler was built like a bear, and he barely staggered back before, beyond reason or warning, crazed and lusting for blood, he again took aim.

Jim shot him again, this time killing him.

Blair pushed past to drop on the floor beside Dan. Reaching out, he carefully turned the man over and checked his pulse. "He's alive," he reported, and then checked the wound. "Bleeding bad. We need to get him to the infirmary right away."

With a last dyspeptic glance at the dead settler, Jim moved to lift the small, wiry man into his arms. Blair held the door wide for him to pass through and then closed it as he hurried along behind. Up ahead, men had spilled out of the saloon, many of them settlers, some transients passing through.

"What happened?" Silas called as Jim and Blair strode toward them. "Dan? Someone shot Dan?" he exclaimed, clearly shocked, when he saw who the Sheriff was carrying.

"Yeah," Jim grunted with a fast warning look at the settlers crowding the boardwalk behind McCready. The burly saloon owner nodded with brisk understanding, and roughly yelled at the men behind him to clear the way. "Saloon's closed for the night," he bellowed, waving at his customers to clear out and go home, as Jim and Blair rushed past. "Moe!" he called, "Ask Lucinda to go get Dan's wife and bring her to Doc's place. Get my rifle and your shotgun and lock up."

Silas followed them into the house, closing the door before he trailed behind them down the hall. Jim laid Dan on the treatment table, while Blair hastily stoked up the stove and got his instruments together. "Get his clothes off," he directed, "and put pressure on the wound while I get things ready."

"How bad is he hurt?" Silas demanded as he helped Jim strip off Dan's boots, belt, shirt and trousers.

"Won't know for sure until I get inside, but I'm hoping not too bad," Blair replied as he dumped his instruments into a pot of water to boil. "Bullet took him in the side, under his ribs."

"And the guy who shot him?"

"Dead," Jim reported succinctly. "Will probably mean trouble."

"Yeah," Silas agreed darkly, turning to grab a blanket from a cot to layer over the publisher, while Jim pressed clean rags against the bloody bullet hole.

"Why'd anyone want to shoot Dan?" Silas wondered with a heavy frown. "Man's harmless."

"The settler was drunk," Jim said. "Just before we got there, I heard him shouting that Dan wasn't publishing the 'truth', and demanding that the letters he'd been writing be printed in the paper. Dan was telling him to get out."

"Letters?" Silas questioned. "What letters?"

Jim flicked a glance at Blair, who caught it and stilled for a moment before turning back to his preparations.

"For months now, Dan's been getting malicious letters, pretty ugly stuff, condemning anyone who's Jewish or colored," Jim replied tightly. "He's been using them as kindling."

"Damn it," Silas growled as he twisted away to go back into the hall. "I'll send Moe around back and I'll take the front, just to be sure nobody tries to create any trouble. You want me to send in his wife when she gets here?"

"Maybe Lucinda could sit with her in the kitchen, make a pot of tea," Blair suggested, "until I'm finished here, and can tell her for sure how Dan is."

"Whatever you say, Doc," Silas replied as he disappeared from view. Blair heard him curse as he stomped along the passageway.

"Surprised Silas is taking it so hard," Jim muttered when they heard the front door slam. "Didn't think he and Dan were all that close. Don't have much in common."

Blair set up his tray on a small table that he'd pulled close to the side. "He's had a bad shock," Blair replied, his voice tight with his own anger. Glancing at Jim, he said, "It's not that he and Dan were friends. It's that Silas thought _they_ – all the rest of them in town – would be safe. I'm sure Angus and a lot of others have been thinking the same thing; that being Christian and white meant they didn't have to worry about the settlers. Now he knows different. None of this is really about religion or color. It's about power and control."

His face stark and pale with emotion that he had no way to rid himself of, Jim grunted his agreement.

Blair was already working over his patient when they heard Lucinda and Lee-Ann come in. Jerking his head toward the hall, he murmured, "Go tell her Dan'll be okay. I'll be done here in a few minutes."

"He's lucky you were here," Jim said quietly, as he squeezed Blair's shoulder before he left with the good news.

Blair didn't reply, just continued sewing up the wound. When he was finished, he taped on a bandage, layered a clean blanket over his patient, and washed his hands. As he dried them, he studied Dan's pallid, unconscious face and sighed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "You're a good man, a man of peace. This shouldn't have happened."

Setting the towel aside, he gathered up the bloody rags, dumping them into a pail, and put the soiled instruments into the pan still warming on the stove. And he thought about what Jim had said. On the one hand, yes, Dan was lucky he was there. On the other, maybe if they'd already gone, there wouldn't have been the same argument about printing those damned letters. Though he'd meant what he'd said to Jim, that it wasn't all about race or differences of spiritual belief, he hoped things would settle down in town after they pulled out. Hoped … but doubted it. Men of conscience, like Dan, would always have trouble with other men who tried to dictate what he should think or write.

Once the evidence of violence was cleaned up and Dan looked as if he was only sleeping peacefully, Blair went to the kitchen, to tell Lee-Ann she could see her husband, and to reassure her once more that he'd recover just fine.

* * *

Tensions grew even more pronounced in the town. McBride led a delegation of settlers to rail against the Sheriff for having killed one of their own, shouting that they wanted justice. Jim, backed by Silas and Moe, glared at them all with disgusted loathing.

"Justice?" he echoed and snorted. "Dan Raymond was unarmed, and about half the size of the drunken lout who shot him. I ordered the man to drop his weapon, and when he lifted his gun to shoot me, I wounded him in the shoulder. When he didn't quit and was clearly going to shoot again, I killed him. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with Circuit Court Judge Stillwater the next time he's in town." He ground his teeth and snorted again. "Justice. Like the justice Henri Brown got, when some cowards snuck into town and burned down his barn? You people don't have the first damned clue about justice." With a last scathing look of utter contempt, he said coldly, "We're done here. Go on home."

"We don't want you as our Sheriff," McBride shouted. "We don't trust you."

"Well, that makes us even," Jim snapped. "I don't trust any of you, either. Be damned if I'd turn my back on any of you vipers. I've had it with all of you. In another month, you can have whoever you want wear this badge. I'm done with Bitterwood Creek."

McBride looked startled for a moment, and then smiled smugly. "Decided to move on, huh?" he goaded.

"Yeah. Fair number of us'll be movin' on, soon as winter's over," Jim grated, his hands fisting to contain his urge to punch the obnoxious man until McBride was bloodied and wouldn't wake up for a week. "Can't stand the sight of you – any of you – any longer. For all I care, you can all go to Hell. Now, go on home. This meeting is over."

Silas and Moe cocked their weapons, and the crowd began to break up. McBride wasn't the only one who was now laughing disparagingly, crowing and congratulating one another that they were washing the town clean.

"God, I hate those people," Silas growled, and spat into the street.

By the end of that week, both the saloon and the general store had 'For Sale' signs in their windows.

* * *

March roared in like a lion, dumping two feet of snow on the town and blowing drifts as high as man over the prairie. But by the middle of the month, there was a thaw, turning the ground into a morass of mud. Sam transferred the remaining assets in his bank to Wichita in an armored wagon sent out by the bank in the city. Wagons lined the street, being loaded with liquor and the non-perishable supplies from the store, as well as with household goods from the living quarters above. More wagons were being loaded as houses were emptied along the street on the far side of the school. Megan's hotel, Maisie's shop and the Brown house had all sold by the end of January, for very generous sums to an anonymous buyer. Delighted by their profits, the women decided to leave everything but their personal belongings behind so, rather than having to cross the long miles in wagons, they could ride in the comparative comfort of the stage, riverboat and train.

No one had answered Blair's advertisement for a new doctor, so he assumed Ambrose would probably move into the house as soon as they vacated it. He'd already packed up his books, medical records, and personal instruments, the medicines and supplies that replaced those he'd carried into town with him. Those boxes along with his and Jim's extra clothing and personal goods were already loaded on one of Henri's wagons, out on the ranch. Blair was leaving everything else as he found it.

The day before they would be leaving, he walked through the house slowly, touching the counter in the little dispensary, looking around the infirmary, and then sitting quietly in his office, remembering the day he'd walked into Bitterwood Creek – and Nellie Bascombe telling him he was the answer to their prayers.

Jim found him there, staring pensively into space.

"Hey," he greeted, as he dropped into the chair by the desk. "You all ready to go?"

"Yeah," Blair replied as he ran his hand along the surface of the desk. "I was happy here, for a long time."

"I know," Jim murmured. "But times change. We'll be okay."

Shaking off his reverie and regrets, Blair smiled. "Yes, we will," he agreed. "You send off the telegraphs to Toby and your Dad?"

"Uh huh. Told them when to expect us in St. Louis. If we don't hear back before we ride out tomorrow, I'm sure there'll be messages waiting at the Telegraph Office there when we arrive," Jim said as he stood. "I'm hungry. What've we got for dinner?"

Snorting, Blair stood. "You're getting lazy. You should be able to sniff the air and tell _me_ what we're having."

"Uh, that's the problem, Chief. I don't smell anything," Jim retorted with a grin as he reached out to ruffle his friend's hair.

Ducking away, laughing, Blair replied, "Well, you're the Sheriff. With the evidence at hand, what do you detect?"

"Okay, smart guy, who's feeding us tonight?"

"Megan. A last dinner in the hotel. You, me, her and Maisie. They're boarding the stage tomorrow."

"Sounds great," Jim enthused as he dropped his arm around Blair's shoulders.

Looking up at him, Blair asked, "So … you think the hotel and bakeshop and the Brown house will ever sell?"

"Couldn't care less if they fell to the ground and rotted," Jim said with a shrug and his tone hardened. "If McBride and his bunch want the buildings and the businesses, they're going to pay top dollar and then some to get them."

"Works for me," Blair agreed whole-heartedly. "Works for me."

* * *

The next day, they handed Megan and Maisie into the morning stage. "You wait for us in Yankton," Jim directed for the umpteenth time. "I don't want either of you roaming around the Territory until we get there."

"Yes, sir, Sheriff, sir," Megan replied with a snappy salute, and then laughed brightly. "Don't you worry. Maisie and I are going to live like queens in the best hotel in town until you lads arrive."

"Take care of yourselves," Maisie urged, as she leaned out the window and held her hand to Blair.

He took it and then kissed it, and she blushed madly. "We'll be fine. Should be there sometime in late May or early June. You girls behave yourselves. Don't get into any trouble. And when prospective husbands start lining up, you both make it clear that you've got gentlemen friends who expect fresh bread and a good meal from time to time, whether you're married or not."

The women laughed, and Jim firmly closed the coach door, making sure the latch was secure. They stood back and waved as the driver cracked his whip and the stage pulled away.

Wagons were also rolling out on the way to the Gold Ribbon to meet up with the rest of the train, before they turned north ahead of the herd. They tipped their hats to the Sloans as they passed, and then swung into their saddles to ride slowly out of town.

"You okay?" Jim asked, as he watched Blair take a last look around.

"Yeah, I'm good," Blair replied, his eyes sparkling, and his smile wide and carefree. "When I walked in nearly three years ago, all I had was what I could carry. Now … I've got a good horse, the best friend any man could have, and a whole community of people moving on with us, people who've become friends and family. I'm a lucky man. Oh, and hey," he added, leaning in confidentially as they rode side by side, "seems I'm also a very _rich_ man."

Jim threw back his head and laughed. Reaching out to slap Blair's shoulder, he chuckled as he said, "That makes two of us, Chief. Lucky, lucky men."

As they cleared the edge of town, he kicked Lobo gently, urging the black stallion into an easy, ground-eating lope. Grinning, Blair turned in the saddle and tipped his hat to the town. And then he nudged Butternut to move up alongside Jim to pace the stallion. The day was theirs, the sun warm on their shoulders. Blair caught a flash out of the corner of his eye, and saw the wolf and the big, black cat racing along beside them, until the spirits again faded from sight.

Giving the settlement a wide berth, riding easy in their saddles, they turned their mounts northeast toward the reservation and rode on. Behind them, Bitterwood Creek slowly sank below the horizon… until there was only the wide prairie sky.

* * *

Finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Circuit Court Judge Morton C. Stillwater and his 'bailiff', Mark McGettrick, are modeled on, and a tribute to, the characters of the '80s television series, Hardcastle and McCormick.
> 
> The references to the Black Hills and the settlement of the Dakota Territory in this story are approximately ten years ahead of the actual historical timeline.


End file.
